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ULAH, 


OTHEE   POEMS 


BY 


AMANDA    T.    JONES. 


SECOND  EDITION. 


BUFFALO: 

H.    H.    OTIS, 

AND 

BREED,    BUTLER    &    CO 

1861. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  186^ 

BY  REV.  RUFUS  COOLEY,  JR., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Northern  District  of 
New  York. 


0.  E.  FKLTOX, 

BTEREOTYPER  AND  PRINTER 
BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 


J.    M.    JOHNSON, 

Printer  and  Binder, 

BUFFALO,  N.  Y 


TO  MY  FATHER, 

WHO,  FOK  MOKE  THAN  SIX  TEAKS,  HAS  JOYFULLY 
HEAKD  THE  HAKPS  OF  THE  BLESSED: 

AND  MY  MOTHER, 


WHO,  TARRYING    YET,  KINDLY    LISTENS    TO    THE    FAINT,    PRELUDING.     STRAINS 
OF   MY    OWN    LITTLE   HARP, 


THESE    HUMBLE    SONGS 


ARE  LOVINGLY  INBCRIBflD, 


BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


1324 


CONTENTS. 

PREFACE,         .....  7 

ULAH, 9 

REIGN  OF  TRUTH,      .          .          .          .  91 

HIDE  AND  SEEK,        ....  94 

PEACE, 98 

LOCUST  LEAVES,        .          .          .          •  100 

GLEN  ELGIN, 105 

REMINISCENCES,         .          .          .          •  108 

A  CHICK-A-DEE  SONG,      .          .          .  Ill 

A  SONG  FOR  REFORMERS,  .          .          .  114 

THE  SILVER  CHALICE,         .          .          .  118 
CHARITY,          .          .          .          .          -121 

WAITING, 123 

THE  KING  OF  THE  NORTH,           .          .  125 

THE  CHILD,  THE  MAIDEN,  THE  MOTHER,  128 

THE  TIDE  OF  LIFE,    .          .          .          .  135 

THE  LABORING  MAN,          .          .          .  138 

DREAM  LAND,  .....  143 

DEWDROPS  OF  KNOWLEDGE,        .          .  146 

LIFE'S  WARFARE,      .          .          .          .  148 

THE  WIND,      .          .                    .          .  152 

PARTING,          .          .                   .          .  155 

THE  PRICE  OF  BLOOD,         .          .          .  158 

THE  WILLOW  TREE,           .          .          .  161 

NATURE'S  FEAST,       .          .          .          .  163 

OUR  PLAYMATE'S  GRAVHS,  .          .          .  165 

THE  Music  OF  THE  SOUL,  .          .          .  167 
THE  CHRISTENING,    .          .          .          .170 


COiN  TENTS. 
OH  !  WOULD  I  WERE  ALONE,  .  .  178 

PRAYER  AND  PRAISE,          .          .          .         175 

THE  DYING  TEACHER,         .          .          .         177 

SONG,      .....  182 

THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  HEART,     184 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  HEART,         .          .         189 

THE  INVALID'S  DREAM, 

THE  THREE  BIRDLINGS,      .          .          •         196 

HAPPY  DAYS,  .....         205 

LIGHT,     ...  207 

THE  MESSENGER,       .... 

WHO  KNOWETH  THE  HEART, 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR, 

HEAVEN,  ..... 

THE  LESSON,    .          .  .          .220 

VISIONS,  ...  • 

THE  FUTURE, 

To  A  LITTLE  POETESS, 

MOTHER  NATURE,     .... 

THE  STORY  OF  A  WRONGED  LIFE, 

THE  HIDDEN  FOUNTAIN,    . 

THE  TRANSPLANTED  FLOWER,     . 

To  JENNIE  K  -  , 

A  HYMN  OF  DEITY,  .... 

AND  BEHOLD  !  IT  WAS  GOOD,      . 

CAROLINE, 

SPRING  WINDS,         .... 

THE  WORLD,    ..... 

THE  SOUL'S  TRIUMPH, 

A  WINTER  IN  SPRING,        .          .          .         264 


.     • 

MY  SPIRIT  LUTE, 

A  PHANTASY,  .          .          .          •  2  '75 

BELL,       ...... 

SNOW  BERRIES,          . 

THE  DEAD  PINE,       .... 


PREFACE. 


I  HAVE  known  a  few  spring  flowers,  brought 
by  the  hand  of  a  feeble  child,  kindle  flashes  of 
feeling  in  the  face  of  the  sternest  man:  so, 
neither  fearing  undue  censure,  nor  deprecating 
just  criticism,  I  lay  my  little  offering  before  the 
public,  hoping  that,  like  a  bouquet  of  early  blos 
soms,  it  will  serve  to  remind  some  earth-worn 

• 
soul  of  the  freshness    and  fragrance  of  its  happy 

May.  A.  T.  J. 


TJLAH: 

AN  INDIAN  LEGEND  VERSIFIED. 


ULAH 


PROEM. 


Oh !  if  the  rocks  on  -  which  w^e  tr&ad 
Could  gather  bacl$  tjie;  sounds;  fc/ng;  ;eie,ad, 
And  crowd  our  ears  with  each  wild  tale, 
How  would  the  gayest  spirit  quail ! 

Beneath  this  low  stone's  quiet  face, 
Some  spade  has  dug  a  burial-place  ; 
Beside  that  boulder  in  the  wood, 
Some  hand  has  spilled  a  brother's  blood. 

The  half-breathed  curse,  the  sudden  blow, 
The  gurgling  sound  of  dying  woe, 
The  stifled  moan,  the  panting  breath, 
As  some  scared  victim  strove  with  death. 


12  PROEM. 

Perchance,  all  these,  in  bygone  hours, 
Have  rocked  the  air  and  bowed  the  flowers ; 
Have  smote  the  rocks  with  viewless  rod, 
And  echoed  in  the  ear  of  God. 


There  towers  a  rock  in  the  far  west, 
Whose  hapless  history  is  guessed  : 
A  story  sweet  as  summer  gale, 
Yet  mournful  as  an  autumn  wail. 


Each;  'mossy  crevkse  ilrips  with  tears, 
Through  all  tHe  sunny,  .laughing  years, 
As;Vjf  its  Siiity  itearifc/were1  wrung 
With  fears  untold  and  woes  unsung. 

Through  all  the  day,  delirious  calls 
Sink  to  the  ground  in  fitful  falls  ; 
Through  all  the  night,  strange  shadows  fly, 
And  spectral  faces  glimmer  by. 

It  may  be  but  the  songs  of  birds, 
That  seem  to  drop  below  in  words  ; 
Tt  may  be  but  the  firs'  unrest, 
Or  moonbeams,  glancing  from  its  breast  ; 


PROEM.  13 

But,  still,  beside  it,  sudden  dread 
Will  turn  aside  the  bravest  head ; 
And,  still,  the  heart,  with  hurried  beat, 
Quickens  the  fall  of  passing  feet. 

List  to  the  tale.     A  dying  race 
Claims  for  its  legends  kindly  place. 
Let  the  heart-throb  of  olden  time 
Pulse  onward  through  the  veins  of  rhyme. 

And  if  the  voice,  that  in  your  ear 
Sings  this  wild  tale  of  love  and  fear, 
Be  weak,  unmusical,  forgive  ; 
But  let  the  simple  story  live. 


CANTO  I. 

When  royal,  sun-descended  Spring 
Had  made  the  beggar  world  a  king ; 
Had  softly  warmed  his  frozen  veins, 
And  washed  him  clean  in  balmy  rains ; 
Had  'broidered  robes  of  changeful  green, 
His  wintry  nakedness  to  screen  ; 
Had  starred  his  breast  with  flowers  white, 
And  crowned  his  brow  with  bands  of  light, 
Oconee,  in  his  swift  canoe, 
Flung  from  his  oar  the  river  dew, 
As  lightly  as  a  bird  might  fling 
The  raindrops  from  his  rapid  wing. 

Alone  and  peaceful,  gliding  far 
Toward  the  beauteous  morning  star, 
His  birchen  bark,  through  forests  deep, 
Stemmed  the  slow  waters'  winding  sweep, 
Loitered  where  prairie-grasses  gave 
Their  slight  reflections  to  the  wave, 


UL  AH.  1 5 

And  stole,  with  graceful  curve,  away 
From  flower- gemmed  isle  and  mimic  bay. 

Through  many  a  lone  and  starry  night, 
It  held  its  dark,  untiring  flight ; 
With  the  fleet  west- wind  swept  along, 
And  woke  the  wave  to  louder  song. 
The  insects1  call,  the  tinkling  sweet 
Of  the  light  brooklet's  dancing  feet, 
The  oft-repeated  mandate  shrill 
Of  passion's  bird  —  the  whippowil  - 
All  evening  voices,  soft  and  clear, 
Made  music  in  the  Indian's  ear. 

The  crescent,  to  a  half-moon  grown, 
Her  smile  above  the  world  had  thrown. 
And  dipped  the  wave  with  silver  bowl, 
Ere  he  had  reached  his  secret  goal. 
But,  'neath  the  early  morning  star, 
He  smiled  to  see,  in  distance  far, 
The  ragged  rocks'  familiar  face, 
That  marked  for  him  a  resting-place. 

Up  the  dim  east  the  sunbeams  flew, 
And  lightly,  faintly  quivered  through 


1 6  ULAH. 

Cerulean  space,  as  wonders  rise, 

And  light  a  new-born  infant's  eyes. 

How  beautiful  the  morning  seemed ! 

How  fair  the  bubbling  ripples  gleamed, 

That  lifted  up  their  ermined  edges, 

And  crowned  with  foam  the  drooping  sedges ! 

The  light  Miami-mist  arose, 
Like  one  from  healthful,  cool  repose ; 
And,  opening  her  azure  eyes, 
Looked  drowsily  toward  the  skies. 
The  red  baneberry's  white-flowered  boughs 
Shook  'neath  the  gray  rocks'  mossy  brows ; 
The  red-bud,  in  the  bright-robed  wood, 
Smiled  o'er  the  mandrake's  flaunting  hood  ; 
And  the  huge  plane-tree,  by  the  wave, 
Stood,  like  a  warrior,  strong  and  brave ; 
And,  waving  far  his  long,  white  limbs, 
Sang  to  the  clouds  his  battle-hymns. 

The  graceful  doe,  toward  the  brink, 
Led  down  her  slender  fawn  to  drink ; 
The  meadow-lark  arose  and  flung 
The  flute-like  matins  from  his  tongue ; 
The  red-winged  blackbird,  hurrying  out 


ULAH.  17 

From  the  high  reedmace,  joined  the  shout ; 
And  thousand  slender,  arching  throats 
Cast  tp  the  wind  their  gleeful  notes. 

Oconee's  was  a  savage  soul ; 

Yet  did  his  crimson  pulses  roll 

With  sudden  swell,  beneath  the  power 

That  wakened  bird,  and  tree,  and  flower, 

To  beautify  the  golden  hour. 

So  softly  splendid,  and  so  new 
Rose  the  fair  world  into  the  view, 
It  seemed  as  if  some  secret  power, 
Alladin-like,  in  midnight  hour, 
Had  but  commanded,  and  swift  hands 
Had  silver-barred  the  hidden  lands- 
Had  garlanded  a  palace  hall, 
And  reared  a  curtained  dome  o'er  all ; 
Had  strewn  with  diamonds  every  street, 
Some  happy  princess-bride  to  greet. 

Oconee  saw,  and  stayed  his  oar, 

To  see  the  glad  day  upward  soar, 

Till  the  last  ripple  that  the  blade, 

With  free  and  wing-like  sweep,  had  made, 


18  ULAH. 

Melted,  and  just  a  thread-like  gleam 
Told  where  his  bark  had  cleft  the  stream. 

And  u  Oh !  "  he  thought,  "If  death  can  bring 
A  brighter  day,  a  sweeter  spring  ; 
If  fairer  hunting-grounds  can  lie, 
Blooming,  beyond  the  shining  sky, 
Then  were  it  very  good  to  die.1' 

Suddenly,  all  the  air  around 
Was  shaken  by  a  tide  of  sound, 
That,  swollen  full,  and  interwound 
With  resonant  murmurs,  floated  near 
In  viewless  billows,  till  the  ear, 
Bewildered  with  the  silver  throng, 
Knew  not  the  echoes  from  the  song. 
It  floated  near ; — with  glowing  face, 
With  blithesome  step,  and  form  all  grace, 
With  glance  as  bright  as  sunrise  beam, 
An  Indian  maiden  sought  the  stream. 

Her  arm  was  like  the  willow  bough ; 
Like  night's  first  cloud,  her  dusky  brow ; 
Her  lips  like  summer's  scarlet  flowers, 
Moist  with  the  dew-fall's  misty  showers. 


ULAH.  19 

Like  the  grape's  clinging  tendrils,  wound 
Over  the  ripe  fruit,  full  and  round, 
Close  to  her  cheek  her  tresses  trailed, 
And  half  its  beauty  darkly  vailed. 


But  oh,  her  voice !  — as  if  the  breeze 

Had  gathered  all  rich  melodies, 

And,  deftly  mingling  them,  had  found 

Her  lips  its  medium  of  sound  ! 

A  tremor  of  the  chant  that  breaks, 

When  th'  ice-fettered  stream  awakes 

In  sunny  spring  to  its  new  joys— 

The  waterfall's  glad,  babbling  noise, 

The  sound  of  boughs  by  light  winds  stirred, 

The  clearest  song  of  woodland  bird, 

The  madrigals  the  wild  bees  sing, 

The  rustle  of  the  hum-bird's  wing  ; 

All  these,  with  rare,  artistic  choice, 

Seemed  blended  in  the  maiden's  voice. 


Oconee  heard,  and  to  the  shore 
He  plied  his  light  and  muffled  oar, 
Over  the  tufted  grasses  stole, 
To  hear  the  nearer  numbers  roll, 


20  ULAH. 

And  when  the  last  sweet  echo  died, 
Had  softly  neared  the  maiden's  side. 

One  slight  foot  planted  in  the  flood, 
With  graceful  drooping  head,  she  stood, 
To  see  the  streaming  of  her  hair, 
In  raven  lines,  reflected  there, 
But  started,  with  a  sudden  frown, 
To  see  another  face  look  down, 
And  turned,  with  angry  haste,  to  see 
Who  might  this  bold  intruder  be. 


Oconee's  form  was  straight  and  fine, 
As  is  the  stately  forest  pine. 
A  chieftain's  mantle  girt  his  breast ; 
A  snowy  feather  was  his  crest ; 
His  blazing  eye  was  clear  and  bright, 
As  is  the  glowing,  midday  light, 
Yet  kindly  as  the  sleeping  stream 
That  sparkles  back  the  nitid  beam ; 
And,  when  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  like 
The  voice  of  billows,  when  they  strike 
O'er  hidden  rocks,  and  onward  go, 
Sinking  away  in  tuneful  flow. 


ULAH.  21 

u  And  does  the  maiden  frown,"  he  said, 

"  Because  a  warrior's  step  is  led 

Toward  her,  as  the  thirsty  fawn 

Seeks  the  clear  stream  when  night  is  gone? 

Must  wrathful  thoughts  her  dark  eyes  light, 

As  fire-flies  flash  in  summer  night, 

Because  a  brother  hopes  to  find 

A  friendly  smile,  a  greeting  kind? 

When  the  bright  spring-birds  sing  their  lays, 

The  smiling  waters  melt  in  praise; 

The  warrior's  heart  is  brave  and  strong, 

But  melted  at  the  maiden's  song." 

"  And  who  art  thou?"  she  shyly  said, 
With  downcast  eye,  and  drooping  head ; 
uUlah  is  very  young  and  weak; 
Why  does  the  brave  his  sister  seek  ?  " 

11 1  am  Oconee.     Far  away 

From  the  red  clouds  of  setting  day, 

I  come  to  seek,  beside  the  wave, 

For  Shabbonah's  neglected  grave. 

He  was  my  sire,  a  chieftain  great, 

Whose  brave  heart  was  the  eagle's  mate, 

To  all  he  loved,  as  good  and  kind, 


22  ULAH. 

As  the  low-talking,  pleasant  wind; 
But  like  the  tempest,  that  lays  low 
The  highest  trees,  amid  the  foe. 

uHe  had  been  wronged:   From  far  he  came 

To  bring  his  enemy  to  shame. 

Pauwega  heard  his  warriors  shout, 

And  sent  a  poisoned  arrow  out, 

That  pierced  and  smote  him  to  the  ground. 

In  the  still  night,  we  gathered  round 

To  hear  his  death-song ;  then  we  made 

A  grave  beneath  a  rock's  deep  shade, 

And  to  his  rest  the  chief  we  laid. 

"Shall  Shabbonah,  in  his  lone  bed, 

Struck  by  the  foe's  unwitting  tread, 

By  friend  nor  son  be  visited? 

Shall  his  great  spirit  mourning  go, 

Shamed -with  neglect  and  weighed  with  woe? 

Not  while  Oconee's  arm  can  guide 

His  swift  canoe  along  the  tide  ; 

Though  thousand  moons  between  us  sweep, 

Oconee,  at  his  grave,  would  weep." 

Oh !  when  did  woman  ever  hear 


ULAH.  23 

A  tale  like  this  nor  shed  a  tear 
Of  tender  sympathy !  the  world 
Has  many  deep  clouds  o'er  it  furled ; 
But  on  the  darkest  mist  there  lies 
The  pitying  light  of  woman's  eyes. 

And  U0h!"  the  maiden  cried,  "but  show 
To  Ulah  where  he  slumbers  low, 
And  she  will  rear  above  the  dead 
The  purple  cone-flower's  lofty  head; 
And  o'er  the  red-root's  clustering  charms, 
Will  wind  the  moon-seeds'  slender  arms  ; 
The  blazing  star  and  blooming  feather 
Shall  lay  their  talking  lips  together, 
And  tell  how,  like  a  warrior  great, 
Oconee's  father  met  his  fate. 

uWhen  the  sun's  wigwam  in  the  west 
Lets  the  bright  chieftain  in  to  rest; 
While  its  red  doors  are  open  wide, 
Then  Shabbonah's  brave  soul  will  glide 
From  that  far  hunting-ground's  white  shore, 
To  see  his  lonely  grave  once  more; 
And  every  flower  that  waves  above 
Shall  whisper  of  Oconee's  love." 


24  ULAH. 

The  savage  turned  his  grateful  look 
Full  on  the  maiden,  till  she  shook 
With  bashful  heart-pulsations  stirred, 
Like  the  twig  swayed  by  startled  bird. 

c'My  sister  has  a  loving  heart," 
He  murmured,  as  she  drew  apart, 
And  screened  from  his  warm  eyes  her  cheek, 
That  softly  flamed  to  hear  him  speak. 
"My  sister's  words  are  sweet  and  good, 
Like  rains  that  drop  within  the  wood ; 
Her  looks  are  like  the  rainbow,  bowed 
In  brightness  on  the  summer  cloud. 

"Once,  when  the  chieftain's  years  were  few, 

Within  his  father's  wigwam  grew 

A  little,  slender,  maiden  form, 

Whose  heart,  with  tender  love,  was  warm. 

Oh !  she  was  graceful  as  the  fawn  ; 

Her  smile  was  like  the  smile  of  dawn ; 

Her  face  was  like  the  new  moon,  white, 

Half  folded  in  the  clouds  of  night 

And,  still,  her  step  grew  soft  and  slow ; 

And,  still,  her  voice  grew  weak  and  low ; 

And,  still,  with  every  moon,  she  grew 


ULAH.  25 

Whiter  and  whiter  in  our  view. 

When  sixteen  springs  had  o'er  her  fled, 

Owaissa  slept  among  the  dead. 

"  When  the  loud  thunders  roll  around, 
The  broken  maize-stalk  smites  the  ground ; 
So  sunk  the  warrior's  broken  heart, 
To  see  his  sister's  soul  depart. 
And  he  has  sought  her  grave  and  prayed, 
At  earliest  dawn,  to  meet  her  shade ; 
Has  piled  the  purple  prairie  flowers 
Above  her  head,  in  summer  hours ; 
And,  with  wet  face,  has  sought  the  skies, 
To  see  Owaissa's  starry  eyes. 

"  None  love  Oconee.     He  is  young ; 
But  early  grief  has  stilled  his  tongue. 
When  all  his  noisy  warriors  go 
To  chase  the  herded  buffalo, 
He  flings  his  arrows  out  with  skill, 
But  thinks  upon  Owaissa  still. 

"  When  the  sun  rose  to-day,  he  felt 

His  icy  sorrow  in  him  melt ; 

And  thought,  ere  this  bright  day  had  passed. 


26  ULAH. 

To  see  his  sister's  soul  at  last ; 
And,  when  he  heard  the  maiden's  tongue, 
He  deemed  it  was  Owaissa  sung  ; 
And  knew  not  but  his  soul  had  found 
The  warrior's  happy  hunting  ground." 

Ulah  had  listened  to  the  tale 
With  dewy  eyes,  and  face  all  pale  ; 
But,  when  the  last  sad  word  had  died, 
Up  from  her  heart  the  crimson  tide 
Floated,  until  her  cheek's  soft  bloom 
Rivaled  the  rosebay's  purple  plume. 

Like  the  slow  wind  at  sunset,  came 
Her  low  reply.     She  breathed  his  name, 
And  whispered,  "If  my  brother  will, 
Ulah  will  be  Owaissa  still." 


Oh  love !  omnipotent  and  high ! 
One  soft  glance  of  a  soul-full  eye, 
With  but  another  glance  agreeing, 
Can  call  you  into  endless  being. 
One  little  touch  of  clasping  hands 
Will  bind  your  precious,  golden  bands, 


ULAH.  27 


That  time,  nor  woe,  nor  death  can  sever — 

Love,  living  once,  lives  on  forever ; 

And  never  yet  a  spirit  grew 

To  rare  completeness,  if  the  dew 

Of  some  sweet  love,  with  sacred  power, 

Crept  not  within,  and  fed  the  flower. 


CANTO  II. 

The  mild,  soft,  Indian-summer  day 
Moved  dreamily  along  her  way, 
Like  one,  accustomed  long  to  woe, 
Who  feels  again  love's  genial  flow ; 
Yet,  bur  den' d  with  the  tide's  excess. 
Finds  it  too  heavenly-sweet  to  bless. 

Her  regal  garment's  purple  fold 
Was  tinged  with  green,  and  edged  with  gold, 
And  silvery  mist,  like  gleaming  lace, 
Vailed  the  soft  splendor  of  her  face. 

Oh !  had  ye  heard  her  rustling  tread, 
As  o'er  the  yellow  leaves  she  sped, 
By  calm  October  kindly  led, 
Ye  would  have  sought  her  queenly  side, 
As  those  who  cluster  round  a  bride, 
Too  solemn  in  their  hearts  to  smile, 
Yet  wondrous  joyful  all  the  while. 


ULAH.  29 

O'er  the  broad  western  land  she  went, 
And  all  the  trees  obsequious  bent ; 
Their  golden  leaves  before  her  cast, 
And  sang  her  praises,  as  she  passed. 
The  brooks,  beneath  the  shimmering  sheet 
Her  hand  had  flung  across  their  feet, 
Lay  tranced  and  silent,  yet  astir, 
As  if  in  sleep  they  dreamed  of  her. 

All  gemmed  with  rains,  and  softly  bright, 
The  grassy  prairie  charmed  the  sight ; 
And,  tossed  in  waves  by  every  breeze, 
Chanted  its  laughing  melodies, 
While,  through  it,  like  a  silver  street, 
Shone  the  clear  river,  broad  and  fleet, 
And  traced  anew  each  tinted  cloud, 
That  o'er  its  azure  face  was  bowed ; 
And  here  and  there,  along  its  side, 
The  gorgeous  groves  stood,  many-dyed, 
And  laughing  softly,  in  reply, 
Whispered  their  joy  to  earth  and  sky. 

The  lime-grass  thrust  its  lances  up 
Beside  the  aster's  fringed  cup ; 
The  splendid  sunflower,  toward  tho  east, 
Bowed  his  bright  head,  like  Jewish  priest ; 


30  ULAH. 

The  purple-flowered  ironweed 
Towered  darkly  o'er  the  sighing  reed; 
And  the  fair  self-heal  smiled  beneath 
The  turgid  thistle's  downy  sheath  ; 
While,  like  a  heart,  all  bare  and  cold, 
When  life's  glad  summer  showers  its  gold, 
Awakening  into  blooming  life, 
When  sorrow's  darkening  clouds  are  rife, 
The  wild  witch-hazel  held  aloft 
Its  flowers,  like  golden  starbeains  soft. 
All  merrily,  the  glad  time  through, 
Echo,  on  argent  pinions,  flew ; 
And,  caroling  with  wondrous  art, 
Made  even  discord  touch  the  heart. 

Yet,  when  the  sun  was  lost  to  view, 
And  mist  was  gathering  into  dew, 
There  rose  so  wild,  so  sweet  a  lay, 
That  even  Echo,  in  dismay, 
Scarce  dared  repeat  the  gushing  song, 
Lest  she  should  do  the  minstrel  wrong. 

'Twas  like  the  tune  that  fancy  sings 
When  we  have  dreamed  of  holy  things ; 
'Twas  like  the  full,  rich  songs  of  birds, 
Save  that  it  melted  into  words. 


ULAH. 


31 


Oh!  the  world,  like  a  chief,  wears  his  blanket  of  red, 
And  the  clouds,  like  white  feathers,  wave  over  his  head ; 
Blight  pleasure  and  plenty  have  gladdened  his  sway, 
And  his  wigwam  is  warm  with  the  smiles  of  the  day. 

I  saw  her  come  out  of  her  dwelling  afar, 

When  there  stood  in  the  east  but  one  beautiful  star ; 

Like  the  corn-silk  her  tresses  were  over  her  cast, 

And  her  moccasins  scattered  white  beads,  as  she  passed. 

Five  times  has  the  old  moon  forgotten  to  glow, 
Five  times  has  she  bent  in  the  darkness  her  bow, 
Since  thou,  my  Oconee,  didst  sing  in  my  ear, 
And  the  river  leaped  up  in  its  gladness  to  hear. 

While  we  sat  by  the  place  where  the  oak  stands  alone, 
And  his  heavy,  green  mantle  was  over  us  thrown, 
Thou  saidst,  when  five  full  moons  have  brightened  the  shade, 
The  chief  will  wait  here  for  the  sweet-singing  maid. 

All  day  has  my  fond  heart  been  sounding  thy  praise, 
While  I  plucked,  with  the  maidens,  the  ripe,  yellow  maize  ; 
I  prayed  the  Great  Spirit  to  grant  me  a  sign, 
And,  lo !  as  we  husked  them,  the  red  ears  were  mine.a 

Thine  eye  is  like  lightning  in  darkness  that  shines  ; 
Thy  voice  like  the  strong  wind  that  roars  through  the  pines  ; 
Thy  words  like  smooth  arrows  that  leap  from  the  quiver ; 
Thy  crest  like  the  white  foam,  that  gleams  on  the  river. 

I  have  dreamed  in  the  night  of  thy  fair  western  home ; 
Unstring  thy  bent  bow,  let  the  prairie-wolf  roam. 
We  will  follow  the  river  that  sings  while  it  flies  ; 
We  will  pass  to  the  west  like  the  stars  in  the  skies. 


32  ULAH. 

The  warrior,  to  his  promise  true, 
Had  waited  since  the  day  was  new, 
Where,  swollen,  with  autumnal  rains, 
Swept  the  fair  river  of  the  plains. b 

With  wily  glance,  as  one  who  knows 
Each  mound  may  hide  revengeful  foes, 
Ere  yet  the  early  shades  had  shrunk, 
He  climbed  the  burr-oak's  ragged  trunk. 
Thick  were  the  boughs,  the  foliage  dense  ; 
Deep  in  the  center,  parting  thence 
The  red-leaved  limbs  to  either  side, 
His  supple  form  he  sought  to  hide.0 

Scarce  was  its  rustling  head  at  rest, 
Ere  tumult  shook  his  Indian  breast : 
From  the  far  eastern  wood  came  out 
The  clangor  of  a  sudden  shout ; 
And  many  a  brave,  with  crimson  crest, 
With  naked  limbs,  and  painted  breast, 
Came  o'er  the  plain  with  footstep  fleet, 
To  scare  the  wolf  from  his  retreat. d 

Ne-pow-ra  led  them — Ulah's  sire — • 
A  chief  whose  lightest  hate  was  dire, 


ULAH  33 

Whose  eye  was  like  the  firelight  flash, 
Whose  limbs  were  lithe  as  mountain  ash. 

Why  starts  the  hidden  chieftain  so  ? 
Ne-pow-ra  is  his  deadliest  foe, 
And  he  would  bear,  for  vengeance  sake, 
The  hottest  fires  that  light  the  stake ; 
Would  smile  to  see  the  warriors  swarm, 
Exulting,  round  his  writhing  form, 
Could  he  but  still,  with  fatal  dart, 
The  rapid  current  of  that  heart. 

Yet  lifts  he  not  his  bended  bow ; 
But,  with  stern  features,  whispers  low 
u  He  loves  his  daughter,  let  him  go ; 
How  fierce  will  be  his  wrath  to  know 
She  leaves  her  father  for  a  FOE! 

How  slight  an  influence  will  control 
That  wayward  thing,  the  human  soul ! 
Just  as  it  trembles  at  the  goal 
Of  all  it  most  has  wished  or  sought, 
A  sudden  lightning-blaze  of  thought 
Will  burn  its  straw-like  schemes  to  nought. 
Touched  by  the  tremble  of  a  tone 
That  rings  responsive  to  its  own ; 


ULAH. 

Swayed  by  a  sign,  a  smile,  a  word, 
That  leads  it  like  a  silken  cord ; 
Its  largest  purpose  passes  by 
As  lightly  as  a  zephyr's  sigh. 

Oconee's  hatred  had  been  nursed 
Within  his  baby  breast,  at  first ; 
From  his  young  lips  the  shout  had  burst 
That  bade  Ne-pow-ra  be  accursed. 
When  Shabbonah,  with  dying  breath, 
Had  sung  his  boasting  song  of  death, 
And  all  his  braves  stood  mourning  by 
To  see  their  haughty  chieftain  die, 
His  son  had  sworn  to  fight  the  foe, 
Till  his  last  warrior  slumbered  low. 

Oconee's  hate  was  fierce  and  fell ; 
But  Ulah's  love  had  bound  him  well ; 
And  hardly  can  revenge  and  love 
Together  o'er  the  heart-chords  move. 

As  the  young  dawn  grew  full  and  round, 
The  tangled  maze  of  dreamy  sound, 
The  quietude  but  half  at  rest, 
The  soft  blaze  on  the  river's  breast, 
The  solitude  that  seemed  to  wind 


ULAH.  35 

A  strange,  weird  glamour  o'er  the  mind, 
Mingled  with  thoughts  of  Ulah's  smile, 
Served  the  young  chieftain's  heart  to  wile 
From  every  vengeful  purpose  wild, 
And  changed  the  savage  to  a  child. 

When  the  broad,  blazing  sun  was  high, 

Alone,  Ne-pow-ra  wandered  by; 

Yet  little  did  Oconee  care 

To  smite  him,  from  his  leafy  lair ; 

And  had  the  two  together  stood, 

A  word,  agreeing  with  his  mood, 

Had  quenched  for  aye  his  thirst  for  blood, 

And  sealed  the  bond  of  brotherhood. 


Upon  the  night-clouds'  broken  line, 
The  red-winged  rays  of  daylight  shine, 
Then  flutter,  down,  like  birds  to  rest, 
And  slumber  in  the  dusky  west. 

The  evening,  like  a  timid  maid, 
Blissful,  but  coy  and  half  afraid, 
Following  the  warrior-planet,  Mars, 
Lifts  her  vailed  face  among  the  stars. 


36  ULAH. 

So,  o'er  the  prairie,  Ulah  draws, 

With  lingering  step  and  frequent  pause, 

Singing,  because  her  happy  breast 

Can  no  way  let  the  echo  rest. 

With  startled  glance,  subdued  and  shy, 

Trembling  to  meet  her  lover's  eye, 

She  nears  the  burr-oak's  branches  dense, 

With  noisy  heart  and  Vildered  sense. 

As  morning's  hands  the  shades  divide 
That  banner  all  the  heavens  wide, 
So  from  his  lair  Oconee  starts, 
And  the  dark  foliage  gayly  parts ; 
Leaps  earthward,  as  the  eagle  darts, 
With  sudden  downward  swoop,  to  meet 
His  Ulah's  light  and  loitering  feet. 

If  love  but  flamed  within  the  breast, 
Where  all  wild  passions  are  at  rest, 
Then  were  it  but  a  comet  train, 
With  sudden  light  to  smite  the  brain, 
And  pass  away,  unfruitful,  vain, 
Leaving  the  soul  to  night  again. 

But  love  is  like  the  sun's  broad  smile, 
And  can  be  hidden  but  awhile 


ULAH.  37 

By  passion's  densest  clouds;  they  pass, 
And  in  the  soul  their  blackness  glass; 
But,  when  their  huge,  cold  wings  depart, 
The  sunlight  permeates  the  heart. 

The  youthful  chief  had  felt  the  fire 
That  leaps  from  murderous  desire. 
Like  the  wild  horse,  by  envy  spurred, 
To  strive  for  mastery  of  the  herd, 
He  had  gone  forth  to  meet  the  foe, 
With  blood  for  blood  and  blow  for  blow  ; 
But  now,  beneath  a  maiden's  look, 
His  heart  was  like  the  midday  brook, 
That  carols  through  a  shining  meadow, 
Undarkened  by  the  lightest  shadow. 

Few  were  his  words,  and  but  expressed 
To  still  the  tumult  of  his  breast; 
Bending  his  face  to  meet  her  cheek, 
Barely  the  wind  could  hear  him  speak. 

U0conee's  heart  has  longed  for  thee, 
As  the  white  summer  longs  to  see 
The  first  bright  flowers,  that  shake  all  over, 
To  meet  the  burning  sun — their  lover. 


38  ULAH. 

Where  the  great,  sleepy  river  stirs, 
My  couch  is  spread  with  softest  furs ; 
And,  where  yon  distant  thicket  waves, 
They  wait  for  thee — my  patient  braves." 

Away,  beside  the  rolling  river, 
Where  wave-tossed  foam-beads  whitely  quiver 
And  frightened  flowers  peer  down  and  shiver, 
They  pass,  and  leave  the  world  to  yearn, 
In  tender  tears,  for  their  return. 

For  their  return; — Oh!  long  shall  night 
Yail,  with  wild  tears,  her  blinding  sight  ; 
Long  shall  the  foam-beads  gild  the  wave, 
That  dies  with  passion,  but  to  lave 
The  restless  feet  that  once  flung  back 
Its  waters  from  thoir  pebbled  track ; 
Long  shall  the  plaintive  winds  awake 
And  breathe  a  wail  for  Ulah's  sake ; 
Long  shall  the  blue  sky,  leaning  o'er, 
Look  for  the  BEAUTIFUL  once  more, 
Ere  she  shall  soothe  their  yearning  pain, 
Or  dower  them  with  her  songs  again. 

The  flower  fades,  the  dew  exhales, 
The  purple  light  of  dawning  pales, 


ULAH. 

The  sweet  moon  dies,  the  breaking  cloud 
Wraps  the  white  star  as  in  a  shroud, 
The  very  wind,  that  leaps  with  mirth, 
Lags,  and  lies  dead  upon  the  earth ; 
And  maidens,  fair  as  Ulah,  lay 
Their  beauties  underneath  the  clay. 

It  is  but  meet;  for  good  must  fill 
The  darkest  consequences  still ; 
And  even  death  may  yield  a  bliss 
As  sacred  as  a  lover's  kiss. 


39 


CANTO  III. 

Low  in  the  west  the  sun  had  set, 
And  night,  with  starry  coronet, 
Bent  down,  her  ebon  hand  to  lay 
Upon  the  flashing  eyes  of  day. 

The  moonbeams,  pallid  and  aslant, 
Crept  thro1  the  wildwood's  darkened  haunt ; 
Laid  their  white  fingers  here  and  there, 
As  half  in  blessing,  half  in  prayer ; 
Brightened  each  tall  tree's  faded  crest, 
And  left  in  shadow  all  the  rest. 

But,  in  the  forest's  deepest  glade, 
A  wilder  light  dispelled  the  shade ; 
Glared  through  the  gilded  dark,  and  made 
The  famished  panther  flee  afraid. 

It  was  Ne-pow-ra's  council  fire, 


ULAII.  4 

Sending  its  broad  blaze  high  and  higher, 
Even  as  the  fierce,  avenging  ire 
Burned  in  the  breast  of  Ulah's  sire. 

It  leaped  along  the  drifting  smoke, 
Dividing  night  with  sudden  stroke ; 
Swept  o'er  translucent  leaves,  that  grew 
Red  as  the  light  that  pierced  them  through ; 
Then,  rushing  from  the  forest,  flew 
To  gild  with  flame  the  prairie  dew. 

The  owl,  astir,  grew  still  again, 
Winked  at  the  blaze  with  sudden  pain ; 
Then  raised  her  cumbrous  wings,  and  swept 
Where,  undisturbed,  the  shadows  crept. 
The  partridge,  (wont  to  sleep  at  night,) 
Awakened  at  the  bursting  light, 
Disturbed  within  his  low  retreat, 
His  long  and  rolling  measure  beat, 
Even  as  a  warlike  drummer  might 
When  heralding  approaching  fight. 

A  hundred  little  voices  woke, 

And  the  night's  quiet  slumber  broke ; 

A  bough's  low  murmur  of  dismay, 


4'J  ULAH. 

As  its  last  leaves  were  borne  away ; 

The  plaintive  sob  of  many  a  rill, 

That  told  its  grief  to  vale  and  hill; 

A  broken  sound  from  every  glen, 

Like  whispered  words  of  guilty  men ; 

All  seemed  to  say  this  evening  hour 

Was  fraught  with  deathful,  murderous  power. 

Ne-pow-ra  in  his  wigwam  stood, 
And  mused  alone  in  bitter  mood. 
Where  were  the  bounding  feet  that  wont 
To  meet  him  coming  from  the  hunt? 
Where  was  the  arm  that  used  to  wind 
About  his  neck,  that  love  might  find 
Swift  ingress  to  his  clouded  mind  ? 
Where  was  the  hand  that  used  to  clasp, 
With  pressure  light,  his  larger  grasp, 
Then  haste,  with  gentle  touch  and  kind, 
His  deerskin  moccasins  to  bind? 
Where  were  the  eyes,  so  warm  and  soft, 
That  soothed  his  savage  humor  oft ; 
The  voice  that  sung,  at  eventide, 
Wild  songs,  that  fed  his  vaulting  pride, 
Of  battle  fought  and  valor  tried? 

Quenched  was  the  hearth-fire's  ruddy  blaze; 


ULAH.  43 

No  hand  to  crush  the  golden  maize ; 
No  face  to  beam  with  tender  care ; 
He  dwelt  alone  with  silence  there. 

Oh !  what  are  all  the  baubles  worth 
That  deck  the  kingly  sons  of  earth  — 
Honor,  and  wealth,  and  pride  of  birth, 
If  warmth  has  died  upon  the  hearth ; 
If  the  light,  falling  from  the  skies, 
Leap    never  back  from  kindly  eyes ; 
If  the  wind-waves,  that  idly  rove, 
Divide  not  with  the  breath  of  love. 

Terrific,  as  the  chieftain  stood, 

Was  the  still  fury  of  his  mood  ; 

That,  drowning  all  his  spirits  good, 

Grew  madly  clamorous  for  blood  ; 

When,  thro'  his  doorway,  streamed  the  light 

That  flung  such  challenge  to  the  night. 

Oh  !  had  the  youths  delayed  awhile, 
To  light  the  huge  and  ready  pile, 
A  gentler  mood  had  come,  perchance, 
And  dimmed  the  lightning  of  his  glance, 
As,  when  the  fire-king's  armies  bound 


44  ULAH. 

Within  the  forest's  shuddering  ground, 
The  clouds  along  the  heavens  drift, 
And  stay  the  ruin,  dire  and  swift ; 
So  memories  had  o'er  him  flown 
Of  the  dear  lost  one's  look  and  tone, 
Of  filial,  fond  affection  shown, 
And  pardoning  tears,  like  blessed  rain, 
Had  quenched  the  flames  within  his  brain. 

But  shall  the  braves  in  council  meet, 

And  wait  Ne-pow-ra's  idle  feet? 

When  the  wild  war-fires  climb  and  curl, 

Shall  tliey  their  dread  defiance  hurl, 

And  he  be  silent  as  a  girl  ? 

He  waits  no  more — his  heart  is  strong 

To  plan  swift  vengeance  for  its  wrong. 

From  his  low  door,  with  footstep  bold, 

As  haughtily  as  e'er  of  old, 

He  leaps,  like  wind  along  the  waves, 

And  stands  among  his  gathered  braves. 

Never  saw  night  a  scene  so  near 
Like  Hades'  lurid  realms  of  fear : 
A  stifling  smoke  arose  and  spread, 
In  raven  blackness,  overhead ; 


U1AH.  45 

The  raging  flames,  with  furnace  breath, 
Like  brothers  warring  to  the  death, 
Flung  their  red  swords,  now  left,  now  right, 
In  ruthless,  battling  haste  to  smite. 
With  faces  gleaming  like  a  host 
Of  demon  men  and  angels  lost, 
A  thousand  stalwart  forms  were  bowed 
Beneath  the  upward-winging  cloud. 
Back  from  the  scene,  the  circling  night 
Fled  'with  a  strange,  uncertain  flight ; 
Then  paused,  and,  daring  to  look  back, 
Stood  chained  with  terror  in  her  track ; 
A  blackness  here — a  fire-wreath  there — •  • 
The  roar  of  flames  through  all  the  air; 
The  dropping  down  of  smitten  bough ; 
The  warrior's  high  and  awful  vow ; 
The  flash  of  woman's  curious  gaze ; 
(Alas !   that  woman's  eye  should  blaze 
With  eager  joy,  when  vengeance  waits 
To  leap  from  out  his  blood-stained  gates!) 
And  worse,  immeasurably  worse, 
The  sound  of  childhood's  lisping  curse, 
All  these,  combining,  seemed  to  make 
The  very  trees  with  terror  quake. 
Then,  like  a  lightning-blasted  pine, 


ULAH. 


That  scorns  his  kingship  to  resign,  — 
Albeit  the  green,  imperial  crown 
From  his  proud  head  hath  fallen  down,— 
The  chieftain  towered  above  the  throng, 
And  told  the  story  of  his  wrong. 

"Warriors,"  he  said,  "and  brothers,  hear! 

Ye  know  Ne-pow-ra  can  not  fear  ; 

And  would  the  eagle  meekly  rest, 

To  see  the  horn'd  owl  rob  his  nest  ? 

Last  night  the  moon  was  round  and  white  ; 

And  Nain-dee,  hunting  by  its  light, 

Saw  TJlah  o'er  the  prairie  go, 

And,  following  her  footsteps  slow, 

He  heard  her  love-song  faintly  fly, 

On  echo-wings,  toward  the  sky  ; 

Saw  where  her  coward-lover  broke, 

The  branches  of  the  river-oak  ; 

And  when  the  warrior  nearer  drew, 

Oconee's  panther-face  he  knew. 

"  With  whispered  words,  as  those  afraid 
Beneath  the  tree  awhile  they  stayed; 
Then,  by  the  river's  sighing  breast, 
They  passed  together  toward  the  west. 


ULAH. 


47 


"  Shall  this  vile  foe  unpunished  stalk, 
With  laughing  eye  and  bragging  talk, 
And  say,    c  Ne-pow-ra's  anger  gnaws, 
His  breast,  but  he  must  idly  pause, 
For  all  his  trembling  braves  are  squaws?" 

He  spoke  as  one  who  scorned  his  theme, 
Then  sat  him  down,  as  if  the  stream 
Of  wrath,  that  o'er  his  senses  beat, 
Had  passed,  and  swept  him  from  his  feet. 

Pauwega  rose :    'neath  his  bent  brows, 

An  eye  flashed  out  whose  glance  could  rouse 

The  dullest  warrior's  heart,  and  streak, 

With  instant  glow,  his  swarthy  cheek. 

Majestic,  yet  uncouth,  he  stood, 

Like  rugged  oak-tree  in  the  wood ; 

And  on  his  arms,  and  o'er  his  breast, 

His  giant  sinews  lay  at  rest, 

Swollen  out  from  the  surface  round, 

Like  huge  roots  clamb'ring  o'er  the  ground. 

His  voice,  -at  first  was  low  and  light, 

Then  rising  in  a  bolder  flight, 

Rang  through  the  wood,  so  loud  and  clear, 

That  the  high  tree-tops  rocked  to  hear ; 

Never  discordant,  never  sharp; 


48  ULAH. 

But  like  a  full,  resounding  harp, 
When  skillful  fingers  deftly  fling, 
Grand,  martial  numbers  from  each  string, 
Kept  still  a  little  underswell, 
Like  the  faint  echo  of  a  knell ; 
And,  in  its  highest  eloquence, 
Came  subtly  softened  to  the  sense. 

"Brothers,  the  chieftain's  heart  is  sore; 
Love  lights  his  silent  home  no  more ; 
Like  this  tall  tree,  his  head  grows  old, 
Already  is  his  wigwam  cold. 

"The  winds  of  winter,  sharp  and  swift, 
Will  pile  around  the  snowy  drift; 
And  who  shall  build  the  fire,  to  warm, 
At  night,  Ne-pow-ra's  freezing  form? 

"All  day  he  looked  to  see  the  face, 
Where  brightness  made  its  dwelling-place ; 
All  day  he  sat  in  grief,  alone, 
Because  his  singing  bird  had  flown. 

"My  brothers,  who  is  this  that  comes, 
With  crafty  step  into  our  homes, 


ULAH.  49 

And  bears  away,  toward  the  west, 
Our  fairest  flower  upon  his  breast? 

U0conee,  son  of  that  far  foe, 
Who  at  our  hearts  three  springs  ago, 
Aimed  his  swift  darts,  and  sought  to  tear 
From  our  high  heads  the  raven  hair! 

uPauwega's  heart  grew  hot  to  hear, 
Their  bragging  war-songs  smite  his  ear; 
From  his  strong  bow  the  arrow    fled, 
And  Shabbonah  bowed  down  his  head. 

uHe  came,  like  river  strong  and  fleet; 
Stern  as  the  rocks  we  stood  to  meet ; 
And,  as  the  cataract's  waters  pour, 
He  fell,  and  sleeps  forevermore. 

"Shall  the  snake's  offspring  dare  to  rise, 
And  with  the  eagle  sweep  the  skies? 
Soar  through  the  clouds,  and  tell  the  sun 
What  deeds  his  crawling  sire  has  done? 

"Saying,  'The  mighty  chieftain  made 
Ne-pow-ra's  haughty  band  afraid, 
And  I,  Oconee,  came  from  far, 
And  bor^  away  his  brightest  star?' 


50  ULAH. 

"Let  the  broad  west  cry  out  in  shame, 
And  let  the  south  grow  bright  with  flame! 
Let  the  keen  east  wind  swiftly  blow, 
And  northern  tempests  answer,  'NcP 

"Arise!     Let  us,  like  storm  winds  strong, 
Follow  these  flying  leaves  along, 
While  our  swift  arrows,  in  the  wind, 
Sing,  like  the  trees  we  leave  behind. 

"Arise!  and  let  the  forest  hear 
Our  warcry  bursting  loud  and  clear, 
While  the  dumb  rocks  shall  voiceful  grow, 
And  echo,  '  Vengeance  on  the  foe ! ' 

Strong  as  the  hurricanes  that  sweep, 
And  tear  up  billows  from  the  deep, 
His  words  rushed  out ;  and  all  the  braves 
Leaped  answering  up  like  howling  waves,  - 
Gestured  their  fierce  desires,  and  cried 
For  WAR,  to  cover  wounded  pride, 
Till,  roused  to  fury,  all  the  throng, 
By  savage  impulse  dire  and  strong, 
Tossed  their  red  arms,  like  flames,  about, 
And  sent  their  wildest  war-cry  out. 


ULAH.  51 

Back  caine  the  howling  notes,  increasing, 
New  sounds  from  pregnant  echo  leasing; 
Along  the  wild  wood  arches  darting, 
To  lone  and  distant  haunts  departing, 
A  hundred  horrid  voices  yelling, 
And  hundred  rocks  the  tones  repelling — 
Dying,  returning,  sinking,  swelling, 
Till  the  last  echo  found  a  dwelling, 
Where    rivulet    bells    their     chimes    were 

knelling, 

And  sobbed  away  her  latest  breath, 
Locked  in  the  stifling  arms  of  Death. 

Ah!  now  Ne-pow-ra's  arm  could  lead 
A  thousand  braves  to  do  the  deed 
Of  speedy  vengeance! — for  the  hate 
That  at  the  heart  its  thirst  must  sate, 
Once  roused,  no  cooling,  silver  flood 
Can  quench  the  hot  desire  for  blood. 
When  once  some  mischief-loving  hand 
Flings  out  the  little  burning  brand 
Into  the  prairie,  a  faint  shine 
Will  mark  its  course,  and  then  a  line 
Along  the  ground  will  redly  gleam, 
Like  sunset  ray  along  the  stream; 
Then  a  still  blaze,  and  then  at  length 


52  ULAH. 

A  sudden  rousing  into  strength; 

As  if,  like  a  wild  battle  steed, 

The  pawing  flame  were  urged  to  speed, 

On  —  on  —  along  the  ground  it  flies, 

While  the  smoke-clouds  like  dust  arise! 

On  —  on  to  battle  —  while  the  wind 

Lashes  its  sounding  whip  behind ! 

No  angry  shout  —  no  loud  command — 

But  while  the  surge  rolls  o'er  the  land 

A  sound  through  all  the  wide  air  peals, 

As  if  of  thousand  chariot  wheels; 

And  fiery  hosts,  like  ambushed  men, 

Leap  up  from  every  pleasant  glen. 

Westward  and  northward,  near  and  far 

Rushes  the  elemental  war; 

And  louder  yet  the  muffled  sound 

Rides  rumbling  o'er  the  trampled  ground, 

Till  all  along  the  grassy  way 

Death  riots  on  his  smitten  prey, 

Robs  the  sweet  plain  of  all  its  bloom, 

And  makes  the  world  one  vaulted  tomb. 

Thus,  thus  the  little  burning  dart 

Was  sent  into  Ne-pow-ra's  heart; 

And  thus  the  silent  crimson  glow 

Crept  slowly,  wavering  to  and  fro, 

Till  bursting  hotly  from  its  rest, 


ULAH. 


53 


It  kindled  every  savage  breast, 
And  woke  a  fire  that  could  not  die, 
Till  it  had  blackened  earth  and  sky,— 
Till  the  sweet  flowers  that  used  to  bless 
Were  shriveled  into  nothingness. 


CANTO  IY. 

An  hour  went  by; — the  brightening  moon 
Waved  her  white  robe  the  world  aboon, 
And  swept  the  misty  vail  aside 
From  her  calm  face,  like  a  young  bride 
That  leans  to  hear  her  bridegroom  speak, 
With  tranquil  eyes    and  heart-pale  cheek. 

Oh,  earth !  so  beautiful  when  noon 
Prints  splendors  with  her  flaming  shoon 
So  sweetly  radiant,  so  blest 
When  sunset  drapes  the  ardent  west  — 
How  more  than  beautiful  art  thou, 
When  the  pure  moon  unveils  her  brow! 
When  star-rills  trickle  through  the  shade, 
How  more  than  radiant!     How  weighed 
With  all  magnificence,  all  sweetness, 
All  power,  all  passion,  all  completeness. 


ULAH.  55 

It  was  a  blissful,  sacred  hour, 
That  seemed  most  gloriously  to  flower 
Out  of  deep  evening,  like  the  bloom 
That  draws  its  whiteness  from  a  tomb. 
A  lustrous  light-flood  fell  like  rain ; 
A  few  light  murmurs  o'er  the  plain 
Ran  tenderly  toward  the  ledge 
That  glistened  at  the  river's  edge, 
And  there,  uniting  with  the  cry 
Of  billows,  floated  to  the  sky. 
It  seemed  that  heaven  itself  had  furled 
The  wing  of  peace  around  the  world ; 
That  the  continuous  music-surges, 
Flowing  from  the  extremest  verges 
Of  the  eternal  sea  of  voice, 
That  calls  unceasingly,  "Rejoice!" 
Had  fallen  toward  creation's  girth, 
To  touch  the  palsied  lips  of  earth, 
And  woke  a  song  therefrom  as  faint 
As  whisper  of  a  dying  saint. 

Alas!  that  moons  should  glow  and  wax, 
The  murderer's  straining  sight  to  tax, 
For  glimpses  of  his  victims'  tracks ! 
That  aught  of  beautiful  should  aid 
Vindictive  plan  or  vengeful  raid. 


56  ULAH. 

And  peaceful  nature  share  the  guilt, 
When  crimson,  human  blood  is  spilt ! 

Have  ye  not,  in  some  dreamy  hour, 
That  came,  with  moonlight-peace,  to  dower 
Your  slumb'rous  senses,  felt  a  power, 
Wrathful  and  dark,  speed  swiftly  in, 
As  't  were  a  marshaled  host  of  sin ; 
And  while,  with  sore  amaze,  you  shook, 
'Neath  the  wierd  phantasm's  glow'ring  look, 
You  still  have  watched,  by  terror  nerved, 
The  path,  the  awful  presence  curved, 
Till  all  your  soul's  sweet  light  but  served 
The  thousand  hateful  eyes  to  show, 
That  smote  you  with  their  baleful  glow? 
So,  o'er  the  moon-illumined  land, 
Came  a  dark-browed  and  subtle  band, 
Whose  very  silence  seemed  to  say, 
How  savagely  they  yearned  for  prey. 
With  stealthy  tread,  and  tireless  haste, 
They  swept  through  wood  and  barren  waste, 
Questioning,  with  evil  eyes  intent, 
Of  pebble  moved,  or  grass-blade  rent, 
To  learn  which  way  the  lovers  went. 
Slight  were  the  marks;  — a  branch  that  hung 
A  little  low;  a  twig  down  flung; 


ULAH.  57 

A  late  and  faded  flower  that  lay, 

With  half  its  petals  torn  away ; 

And  these  were  all,  until  they  stood 

Close  by  a  little  tangled  wood, 

And  marked,  upon  a  moonlit  mound, 

Where  many  feet  had  trod  the  ground ; 

Tearing,  as  they  assayed  to  pass, 

The  clinging,  rush-leaved  feather-grass, 

That  from  one  gay  robe,  fluttering  through, 

Had  torn  a  bead,  that  shone  like  dew. 

The  night  passed  on  her  westward  track, 

And  drew  her  radiant  mantle  back ; 

The  moon  grew  dim,  and  hid  her  face ; 

Yet  still  Ne-pow-ra  led  the  chase. 

As  if  keen  instinct  could  avail 

To  trace  the  faint,  imperfect  trail 

Though  all  the  light  of  heaven  should  fail. 

Then  the  cool  night  laid  down  to  rest, 
With  songless  lip   and  shrouded  breast, 
And  day  across  the  heavens  stole, 
As  shadowy  as  a  poet's  soul. 
It  came  and  passed,  and  came  again, 
Divided  by  a  night  of  pain 

That  sobbed  itself  away  in  rain, 
a* 


5  8  ULAH. 

And  seemed  to  fling  its  shadow  gray, 
Coldly  o'er  all  the  coming  day. 
That  withered  day!     It  seemed  to  lean 
The  frowning  heaven  and  earth  between, 
As  if  some  dreary  tale  of  fear, 
Had  partly  caught  its  sluggish  ear ; 
And,  gossip-like,  to  hear  the  rest, 
It  yearned  with  eagerness  unblest ; 
But  yearned  in  vain;  its  last,  slow  ray 
Shrank  from  the  weeping  world  away, 
And  left  a  ghastly  light  and  dim, 
Like  that  which  marks  a  rainbow's  rim, 
When  smothered  in  a  cloud  it  lies, 
And  in  a  gradual  tracery  dies. 

A  pallid  light,  that  like  a  robe 
Of  death,  was  folded  round  the  globe ; 
But  brightened  with  a  star,  and  fringed 
With  swaying  clouds,  all  whitely  tinged 
By  the  light-prophesying  glow, 
From  the  unrisen  moon  below. 

Like  a  grieved  child,  the  wind  had  wailed, 

Until  the  fulvid  daylight  paled; 

But  when  the  twilight  shade  grew  deep, 


ULAH. 


59 


It  slowly  sobbed  itself  to  sleep. 
No  murmur  in  the  air; — no  sound, 
Was  stealing  o'er  the  dewy  ground; 
But,  with  a  strange  and  ghastly  griinness, 
Dark  forms  were  speeding  through  the  dim 
ness; 

Each  with  as  unresounding  tread, 
As  step  of  spirit  from  the  dead. 

Beside  the  river's  quiet  breast, 
The  bridal  train  was  hushed  in  rest ; 
The  sky  seemed  tenderly  to  lean 
Above  them,  and  the  clouds  between 
Drooped  as  they  were  a  curtain  screen ; 
And'the  slow  stream  crept  deftly  by, 
Hushing  its  light  song  to  a  sigh, 
Lest  the  light  vail  of  twilight  sleep 
Should  from  each  sealed  eyelid  sweep. 

All  suddenly  a  timorous  cry 

Arose,  and  pierced  the  silent  sky:- 

"  Oconee !     Wake !    The  foe  is  nigh !  " 

Instant  as  lightning  at  the  sound 

A  score  of  warriors  spurned  the  ground ; 

And,  dashing  down  the  silver  dew, 

Along  the  dark  shore,  westward  flew. 


60  ULAH. 

Ne-pow-ra  heard  the  voice ;  his  eye 
Saw  the  fleet  braves  before  him  fly ;  —*• 
Amid  the  evening's  gathering  gloom 
Caught  one  white  gleam  of  tossing  plume 
And  knew  the  glowing,  scarlet  vest, 
That  clung  to  Ulah's  panting  breast. 
As  the  red  meteor's  streaming  light 
Makes  the  deep  sable  heavens  bright, 
So  through  his  eyes'  dark  night  there  came 
A  sudden  lightning  burst  of  flame. 

"  Warriors!  "  he  cried, "when  wolves  are  nigh, 
How  the  weak  prairie-chickens  fly! 
Be  strong  as  starving  wolves,  to  tear 
The  feathered  scalps  these  cowards  wear!  " 

They  heard; — as  storm's  red  banner  flies, 
So  leaped  the  lightning  from  their  eyes ; 
And,  like  the  thunder's  awful  blare, 
A  thousand  war-whoops  rent  the  air, 
As  if  that  soundless  calm  had  been 
A  prophecy  of  future  din ; 
And  all  the  tempests  of  the  world 
Jn  jangling  unity  were  hurled, 


ULAH.  Gi 

To  scare  the  skies  with  discord  rude, 
And  waken  hell  to  join  the  feud. 

With  lengthened  leap,  like  panther's  tread, 
The  sinewy  forms,  untiring,  sped. 
These,  silent  as  the  arrowy  rays 
That  light  the  glittering  polar  ways ; 
Those,  following  with  whoop  and  vaunt, 
Mingled  with  curse  and  jeering  taunt. 
Fleet  is  the  foot  that  terror  flings ; 
But  vengeance  moves  with  fleeter  wings. 
Nearer,  each  waving  crimson  crest, 
Apr!  nearer  still,  and  nearer  pressed. 

Darkly,  in  the  dim  distance,  towered 
A  massive  rock,  with  cedars  bqwered  ; 
Girt  by  the  Illinois,  that  shone 
At  its  dark  feet,  as,  by  a  throne, 
A  cloth  of  shining  silver  lies, 
And  sparkles  up  to  kingly  eyes. 
Most  fit  for  kings,  the  boulder  lay  — 
Majestic,  strong,  and  stern  as  they  — 
The  tyrant  of  the  darkened  land, 
All  isolated,  cold  and  grand. 
No  foot  could  reach  its  lofty  head, 
Save  by  a  narrow  path  that  led, 


62  ULAH. 

Rock-guarded  upward,  rough  and  steep, 

Impregnable  as  castle-keep. 

Gray  were  its  walls,  but  toned  and  vailed, 

With  clambering  vines  that  o'er  them  trailed, 

And  glowing  yet  with  blossoms  rare, 

That  purpled  in  the  summer  air, 

A  hundred  feet  above  the  swarm 

Of  eddying  waves  it  reared  its  form, 

And  gave  the  swooping  raven  rest 

Upon  its  broad  and  mossy  breast. 

At  its  fringed  side  the  heron  stood, 

With   neck   curved   downward  toward  the 

flood, 

Intent  but  on  his  silent  prey, 
Whose  fins  flashed  through  the  river  spray ; 
And  there  the  broad-winged  owl  flew  by, 
All  the  long  night,  with  hollow  cry, 
That  seemed  some  harper's  tuneless  lay, 
Prescient  of  dolor  and  dismay. 

On  sped  the  chase !     The  foe  could  hear 
The  pant  of  haste,  the  sigh  of  fear; 
His  bow  each  nimble  warrioi  drew, 
And  aimed  his  arrow  as  he  flew. 

Beneath  the  rock's  overhanging  shade, 


ULAH.  G3 

Where  deepest  glooms  of  night  were  laid, 
The  little  band  were  screened;  then,  first, 
A  cry  from  the  young  chieftain  burst: 
"Ulah!  my  braves!  in  boyhood's  day, 
My  feet  have  climbed  this  rocky  way  ; 
And  oh !  be  glad  once  more,  for  thus 
Has  the  Great  Spirit  cared  for  us!" 
Then,  linked  with  Ulah,  led  the  flight 
Up  the  dark  bluff's  gigantic  hight, 
And,  searching  o'er  the  broken  side, 
Found  a  safe  covert  for  his  bride. 
One  lingering  look,  a  kiss,  a  word, 
That  moved  the  lips,  and  sunk  unheard ; 
Then  backward  to  the  path  he  sprang, 
And  loud  his  bold  defiance  sang  : 

41  Ye  are  a  mighty  band,  and  we 
Are  little,  and  we  could  but  flee ; 
Yet  follow  here,  and  our  swift  darts 
Shall  fly,  and  tear  your  serpent  hearts!" 

Not  death  itself  such  hearts  could  daunt! 
Yell  answered  yell,  vaunt  echoed  vaunt; 
From  every  rock-cleft  crevice  rang 
The  bursting  war-whoop's  deafening  clang, 
And  horridly,  from  plains  below, 


1)4  ULAII. 

Rose  the  mad  screeching  of  the  foe. 
Hither  and  thither,  at  the  base, 
Circled  the  wild,  uncertain  chase, 
Till,  vainly  searching  for  the  path, 
They  could  but  pause  in  baffled  wrath. 

But,  now,  like  one  scared  out  of  rest, 
Who  flings  the  curtains  from  her  breast, 
The  moon  struck  back  the  clouds  of  night, 
And  leaned  between  them  still  and  white. 
By  the  wild  gleaming  of  her  face, 
The  narrow  road  each  eye  could  trace ; 
And  there,  like  wild  beasts  by  their  caves, 
Stood  the  young  chieftain  and  his  braves. 

Now  burst  anew  that  awful  sound, 

And  trampling  legions  shook  the  ground ; 

Onward  his  band  Ne-pow-ra  led  — 

Downward  the  flint-tipped  arrows  sped ; 

And,  like  a  meteoric  rain, 

The  far-flung  stones  shot  to  the  plain; 

Till,  close  uniting  at  the  base, 

Face  from  above  leaned  down  to  face ; 

And,  glowering  with  intensest  light, 

Made  luminous  the  pallid  night. 


ULAH.  65 

Dire,  dire  confusion !  not  a  cry 
Could,  unattended,  pierce  the  sky ; 
But  shout,  and  groan,  and  dying  yell, 
Blended  in  one  terrific  swell, 
Till  e'en  the  startled  eagle  rose, 
Screaming  with  terror  o'er  the  foes. 

Soon,  soon  the  burst  of  opening  battle 

Changed  for  the  smothered,  deathful  rattle 

From  gasping  throats,  and  groans  suppressed 

Were  stifled  in  the  heaving  breast. 

Beside  the  river's  flinty  bed, 

A  hundred  valiant  braves  lay  dead ; 

And  the  fierce  wolf  stole  o'er  the  plain, 

With  hungry  haste  to  lap  the  rain 

That  dripped  from  many  a  gaping  wound, 

And,  hot  and  crimson,  warmed  the  ground. 

Oh !  twice  ten  thousand  men  would  fail 
That  narrow,  guarded  road  to  scale. 
Though  but  a  score  might  fling  their  darts, 
That  score  could  pierce  a  score  of  hearts 
With  every  lifted  bow,  and   still 
Creep  from  the  enemy  at  will. 

Like  some  strong  beast  withheld  from  prey, 


t>  ULAH. 

Ne-pow-ra  stood.     The  flaming  ray 
That  leaped  within  his  glaring  eyes 
Almost  might  make  the  dying  rise. 
Suddenly,  toward  the  rocky  path 
He  flew,  like  one  on  fire  with  wrath, 
Cleft  the  dark  ranks  that  paused  beneath, 
And,  frenzied,  rushed  alone  to  death. 

Oconee  saw  him  in  the  gloom, 
And  knew  him  by  his  kingly  plume : 
Fleetly,  toward  his  towering  head, 
Winged  with  a  curse,  the  elf-bolt  fled ; 
Met  him,  as  up  the  hight  he  pressed, 
And  sunk  into  his  maddened  breast. 

He  paused;  like  some  still  forest  tree, 
He  stood  a  space ;  then  turned  to  flee ; 
But,  ere  his  failing  foot  could  leap, 
Reeled,  and  swung,  powerless,  down  the  steep. 
Prone  at  the  rock's  rough  foot  he  lay, 
And,  dumb  and  senseless,  barred  the  way. 

Forth,  at  the  sight,  Pauwega  sprang, 
While  the  thick  arrows  round  him  sang ; 
And,  with  a  giant  strength,  he  bore 
The  chieftain  from  the  rock-girt  shore. 


ULAH.  67 

But  now  a  deeper  darkness  clung, 
And  hid  the  pale  moon  where  she  swung; 
And,  softly  gathering  up  the  dead, 
A  little  way  the  warriors  fled ; 
While,  'neath  the  fir-tree  at  the  base, 
The  wakeful  sentry  took  his  place. 
That  no  light  feet  should  steal  away, 
And  rob  the  savage  of  his  prey. 

Soon  did  the  silence  round  them  steal, 

And  set  on  every  lip  her  seal ; 

While  sleep,  from  out  night's  cool  dominion, 

Sailed  softly  on  with  dusky  pinion ; 

And  hovering  o'er  the  wildest  sense, 

Wrapped  it  in  stirless  impotence. 

Sweet  sleep,  that  comes  to  all  alike  — 
The  weak  who  sink,  the  strong  who  strike-, 
Soft  as  the  moonlight's  milky  glow, 
And  gentle  as  a  river's  flow! 
All  day  our  weary  ways  we  feel 
Along  the  world,  as  blind  men  steal, 
Uncertain  where  the  foot  will  sink — • 
On  flowery  bed,  or  chasm's  brink; 
But,     in     the     night,    we  gently  take 
The  robe  of  Deity,  to  make 


68  ULAH. 

A  tent  for  our  tired  souls,  and  dare 

The  darkness,  certain  of  His  care. 

And,  oh!  when  sorrow's  tempests  sweep, 

How  pleasant  is  the  calm  of  sleep ! 

So  like  that  faint,  exhaling  breath 

That  men  have  dared  to  christen  Death! 

Christened  with  tears  on  earth  ;  but  when, 

Lifting  no  more  the  breast  of  men, 

Like  a  rose-perfumed,  balmy  gale, 

It  swells  an  ANGEL'S  heaven-bound  sail. 


CANTO  V. 

Ne-pow-ra  lived  —  if  life  can  flow 
When  its  red  tide  has  sunk  so  low. 
With  gathered  grass  they  piled  his  bed, 
Pillowed  with  moss  his  stirless  head, 
And  laid  him  where  his  wakening  eye 
Could,  unobstructed,  sweep  the  sky. 

All  night  in  deathly  trance  he  lay ;  — 

Scarce  could  they  feel  life's  fountain  play 

Within  his  breast,  and  on  his  face 

A  stern  and  awful  look  had  place, 

As  if  his  hatred  and  despair, 

Even  in  his  rest,  were  -printed  there. 

At  earliest  dawn,  returning  life 

Made  in  his  heart  a  little  strife 

With  deathful  languor,  and  a  glow 

Crept  to  his  cheek  in  gradual  flow, 


70  ULAH. 

As  it  had  caught  the  crimson  dyes 
That  tinted  all  the  orient  skies ; 
And,  while  reflecting,  faintly  grew, 
Lit  with  a  kindling  morning  too. 

He  moved  a  lid; — his  first  slow  gaze 
Seemed  to  dawn  forth  in  shrouding  haze; 
But  suddenly  flashed  full  and  high, 
While  from  his  lips  a  gasping  cry 
Came  hoarsely,  uLet  the  cowards  die!  " 
He  said  no  more;  but  what  he  said 
Told  of  some  purpose  deep  and  dread ; 
And  to  the  savage  senses  came, 
His  meaning,  through  his  eye  of  flame. 

There  have  been  those,  who,  clear  of  guilt, 
Have,  in  their  dream,  some  sweet  life  spilt; 
And,  hardly  out  of  sleep,  have  deemed 
The  horror  done,  that  was  but  dreamed, 
And  for  one  moment  felt  the  smart 
Of  murd'rous  purpose,  in  the  heart. 
In  that  wild  instant,  friend  or  foe 
Beside  them  had  been  stricken  low ; 
And  the  red  gush  of  human  gore 
Had  stained  the  hand  forevermore. 


ULAH.  71 

Was  it  not  thus? — had  he  not  kept 
Unholy  warfare  while  he  slept ; 
And,  as  he  wakened,  Frenzy  planned, 
And  gave  to  air  that  fell  command? 

To  let  the  hand  of  Famine  rest 
In  icy  pressure  on  the  breast ;  — 
To  let  her  thin  arm's  close  embrace 
Blacken  the  brightness  of  the  face ; — 
To  let  her  white  mouth  press  the  lip, 
Till  the  last  hissing  breath  should  slip, 
From  quivering  lungs,  and  Death  should  try 
The  heart-string's  last  wild  minstrelsy;  — 
To  let  the  fair,  the  living  tread, 
Above  the  caverns  of  the  dead ; 
While,  at  the  step,  a  hollow  sound, 
Rings  from  the  straining,  heaving  ground; 
To  let  the  blooming  hill  of  life 
Grow  pregnant,  in  a  horrid  strife, 
And  gape,  until,  within  its  womb, 
The  eye  can  trace  a  yawning  tomb, 
And  the  pale  arms  are  linked  among 
The  skeleton-arms  around  them  flung ;  — 
And  the  dread  fissure,  closing  now, 
Shuts  in  the  breast,  the  lip,  the  brow ; — 
Oh,  God!  to  let  these  horrors  wind 


72  ULAH. 

Around  the  frenzy-shake*  mind, 
And  stand,  and  watch  the  war,  the  while, 
With  a  triumphant,  fiendish  smile ; — 
Tliis  was  his  deadly  purpose : — Life, 
With  all  delights  and  beauties  rife, 
And  power,  that  lifts  the  spirit  high 
Between  the  valley  and  the  sky; — 
And  love — a  mightier  thing — a  sea 
That  sways  the  soul  with  ecstasy;— 
All,  all  forever  flung  away, 
For  joy  of  one  revengeful  day. 

Is  this  the  boasted  human  f     Can 

Such  hatred  nerve  the  heart  of  man, — 

Of  more  than  man — of  FATHER!     Oh! 

Let  the  skies  into  rivers  flow! 

Let  the  high  suns  dissolve  in  beas, 

To  wash  such  blood-soaked  souls  as  these! 

Yet  these  were  savage!     There  have  been 
Darker  and  deadlier  deeds  of  sin, 
Among  the  ''children  of  the  light," 
That  scoff  at  these  dark  sons  of  night ; 
A  slander-sting,  from  one  who  grew, 
In  daylight,  sweet  as  honey-dew; 


ULAH.  73 

And,  big  with  word-love,  at  the  heart 

Aimed,  secretly,  his  pois'nous  dart; — 

A  father  stabbed;  a  trusting  wife, 

Robbed  of  the  bliss  of  mother-life; 

A  daughter  ravished; — who  can  tell 

Or  number  these?     The  brain  would  swell, 

With  anguish ;  the  weak  heart  would  quail ; 

The  very  springs  of  life  would  fail, 

To  hear  them.     Make  the  grave-rooms  deep, 

And  let  the  awful  terrors  sleep. 

But,  oh!  bow  down!  nor  dare  to  say, 

"These  are  of  night,  and  those  of  day:" 

None  but  the  Holiest,  Most  Wise, 

Can,  in  a  conscious  splendor  rise, 

And,  leaning  o'er  sepulchral  night, 

Declare,  "I  DWELL  IN  PERFECT  LIGHT." 


The  days  moved  drearily  along  — 

A  pallid  and  discordant  throng. 

The  nights,  with  clouds  of  terror  crowned, 

Dropped  dews  like  death-damps  to  the  ground. 

Death  was  at  work.     The  sluggish  air 
Was  weighed  with  breathings  of  despair, 


74  ULAH. 

And  humid  with  the  briny  rain, 

That  burst  from  every  madd'ning  brain ; 

But  not  a  wailing  cry  arose, 

To  swell  the  joy  of  waiting  foes ; 

'T  was  silent  all; — you  had  not  thought 

That  overhanging  skies  saw  aught 

But  river  broad  and  prairie  green, 

And  the  huge  rock  that  lay  between. 

You  had  not  deemed  the  chilly  air 

A  sound  upon  its  wings  could  bear, 

Save  the  slow  water's  moaning  hymn, 

Blended  with  sigh  of  waving  limb, 

And  broken  into  fragments  rude, 

By  ravens'  croaking  interlude. 

At  length,  along  the  world  there  came 
An  autumn  day,  half  frost,  half  flame ; 
The  red  sun  flung  his  banner  high, 
And  fleet,  cold  winds  went  raving  by. 

Ne-pow-ra,  rigid  as  the  clay 
From  which  the  soul  has  fled  away, 
Lay  on  his  couch; — his  glassy  eye 
Turned  hungrily  toward  the  sky. 
Hungering  for  what?     For  sound  of  grief, 
From  dying  warrior  or  from  chief;  — 


ULAH.  75 

For  sign  of  cowardice,  or  weak, 
Shrill  note  of  woman's  plaintive  shriek. 

He  would  not  die  till  he  could  know 
The  rarest  vengeance  of  a  foe ; 
Till  he  could  say,  "They  cry  for  aid  — 
These  women-warriors  are  afraid!" 
Reddening  with  sudden  vigor  now, 
Then   cold  and  pale  his  swarthy  brow , 
As  thoughts  of  deep  revenge  would  start, 
Or  Death's  dark  anguish  clutch  his  heart. 

Ha!  What  has  roused  the  leaping  blaze 
That  flashes  through  his  lifted  gaze? 
What  nerves  the  dark'ning  brain  anew, 
To  light  with  life  death's  clinging  dew? 
What  lifts  him  from  his  grassy  bed, 
And  rears. once  more  his  haughty  head? 

See !  On  the  boulder's  mossy  breast, 
There  gleams  aloft  a  scarlet  vest; 
And  through  the  air  a  sound  of  woe 
Steals  to  the  greedy  ears  below! 

Could  that  be  Ulah? — she  whose  face. 


76  ULAH. 

Had  been  the  beauteous  dwelling-place 
Of  bashful  bloom,  whose  graceful  ways 
Had  made  fierce  warriors  chant  her  praise ; 
Whose  swaying  form  was  light  and  lithe ; 
Whose  singing  voice  was  sweet  and  blithe ; 
Whose  glance  was  like  the  dusky  night, 
With  all  its  sparkling  stars  alight. 
Could  that  be  Ulah?  Bowed  and  weak, 
With  glaring  eye  and  ashen  cheek, 
Swayed,  like  the  wind-flower  light  and  fair, 
With  every  idle  breath  of  air ! 
Alas!  'twas  Ulah!     Could  he  trace 
The  deathliness  of  that  young  face; 
Or  could  he  hear  the  anguished  wail 
That  rose  above  the  sounding  gale; 
Nor  feel  a  power  within  his  breast, 
Rousing  the  dead  love  from  its  rest? 
High  on  the  beetling  bluff  she  clung , 
While  the  green  cedars  round  her  swung, 
And  leaned  her  ghastly  face  below, 
Lit  with  her  last  hope's  burning  glow. 
She  saw  him — knew  him  —  and  a  prayer 
Of  yearning  passion  rent  the  air. 

uNe-pow-ra — father  —  oh!  come  nigh, 
And  hear  thine  erring  daughter's  cry; 


ULAH.  77 

Let  the  last  flame  of  wrath  depart, 
And  ULAH  fill  again  thine  heart. 

"  Oh  !  thou  wert  wont  to  say,  her  eye, 
Like  thine  own  glance,  was  brave  and  high ; 
And  thou  wert  wont  to  say,  her  feet 
Were,  like  her  mother's,  light  and  fleet! 

uSee!  dim  the  eye  that  used  to  shine, 
With  lightning  flame,  as  bright  as  thine ; 
And  slowly  now  the  feet  must  tread, 
That  go  to  join  the  mother,     dead! 

"Beneath  the  fir's  dew-dripping  bough, 
The  chieftain's  daughter  leans  her  brow; 
While  the  tears,  dripping  from  her  eyes, 
Freeze  on  the  cold  stone  where  she  lies. 

U0h!  thou  wert  wont,  with  willing  feet, 
To  bring  thy  daughter  tender  meat ; 
And  thou  didst  greet,  with  kindly  word, 
At  morn  and  night  thy  singing  bird ! 

uThou  knowest  how  Ulah  oft  did  bring 
For  thee  cool  water  from  the  spring; 


78  ULAH. 

And  crush  the  maize,  and  build  the  fire, 
To  feed  and  warm  her  warrior  sire. 

uNe-pow-ra — father — hear  rny  cry! 
Oh!  give  us  food  —  we  fail- — we  die! 
Let  the  last  flame  of  wrath  depart, 
And  ULAH  fill  again  thine  heart!" 

Vain  prayer — to  deaf,  unheeding  ear! 
He  heard  not;  or  he  would  not  hear. 
As  well  might  summer  zephyrs  hope 
To  tear  the  earth-bound  boulder  up ; 
Or  glowing  summer  sun  to  fuse, 
Or  night  dissolve  the  rock  with  dews, 
As  Ulah  hope,  with  wail  or  prayer, 
To  ope  the  fount  of  mercy  there ;  — 
Revenge,  or  something  mightier,  drew 
Forever  from  the  rock  its  dew. 

She  passed  away — the  echo  heard 
No  more  the  sound  of  pleading  word; 
Yet  kept  the  air  awhile  astir, 
In  tender  memory  of  her. 

Unmoved  the  chieftain  stood ;  nor  bowed 

His  stately  head;  and  if  a  crowd 

Of  memories  swept  his  heart-strings,  shaking 


ULAH.  79 

His  purpose  stern,  or  softly  waking 
The  olden  music  there,  no  tone 
Revealed  the  secret.     God  alone, 
Whose  ear  at  the  deep  heart  is  bent, 
Knew  what  his  awful  stillness  meant. 

He  stirred  not — spoke  not  —  silent  awe 
Lay  like  a  spell  on  all  who  saw. 
Oh!  would  he  ever  speak?     The  breeze 
Harping  its  wierd,  wild  melodies, 
Grew  deathly  still; — the  very  wave, 
That  seemed  the  pulse  of  nature,  gave 
No  voice,  but  a  low,  throbbing  sound, 
That,  like  a  heart-beat,  shook  the  ground. 

They  broke  the  chain  of  that  wierd  spell ; 
They  came;  they  touched  him,  and  he  fell; 
They  raised  the  plumed,  and  kingly  head; 
He  stirred  not,  spoke  not; — HE  WAS  DEAD. 


If  human  deeds  have  power  to  draw 

Aside  inexorable  law, 

To  dim  the  light  of  heaven,  and  tear 


80 


ULAH. 


The  sweetness  from  the  ambient  air; 

To  bow  the  heads  of  all  bright  things, 

As  if  beneath  dark,  shadowing  wings, 

Then  did  the  day  receive  the  stain 

Of  deathful  wound,  and  die  in  pain  ; 

Upon  the  pallid,  cloud-draped  sky, 

With  ghastly  heaviness,  to  lie, 

Until  the  evening,  white  with  fear, 

Lifted  her  from  her  silent  bier, 

While  all  the  mourning  stars  drew  near, 

And  carried  her,  with  tears  like  rain, 

Down  to  the  western  burial-plain. 

The  sun's  bright  flame  was  quenched  in  mist; 

The  smothered  winds  grew  calm  and  whist; 

An  icy  chill  crept  o'er  the  land, 

As  if  it  felt  Death's  rigid  hand 

Shut  round  it,  as  in  coffins  cold, 

A  rose,  the  dead,  white  fingers  fold ; 

A  rose  that  withers  in  the  deep, 

Still  night,  that  guards  the  grave's  soft  sleep; 

A  day  that  fades,  like  crimson  roses, 

In  the  black  night  that  round  it  closes. 

Just  at  the  twilight,  while  a  dirge 
Came  sweeping  from  the  river  surge, 
A  score  of  voices  joined  the  swell, 


ULAH.  81 

In  tardy  clangor,  like  a  bell 

Struck  solemnly  and  slowly  first, 

Then  wakening  to  a  rapid  burst 

Of  sharp,  successive  peals,  then  dying, 

Like  a  sick  infant's  last,  soft  sighing. 

In  quavering  unity,  they  rose, 

As  they  were  one,  until  the  close ; 

But  shook  apart,  at  the  last  stave, 

Like  a  low,  pebble-parted  wave. 

It  was  the  death-song's  loitering  flow, 

That  startled  even  the  ruthless  foe, 

With  the  wild  grandeur  of  its  woe, 

Until  it  died,  ere  half  descended, 

In  faint,  and  fainter  murmurs  ended. 

The  last  low  echo  scarce  was  flown, 

When  the  foe  caught  a  clearer  tone, 

That,  like  a  sudden  trumpet-blast, 

Full  to  the  evening  wind  was  cast. 

Upon  the  boulder's  topmost  hight, 

They  saw,  within  the  faded  light, 

Oconee,  pallid  as  the  dead, 

Like  a  straight  sapling,' rear  his  head; 

A  parting  cloud  within  the  west 

Let  the  last  sunbeam  kiss  his  breast ; 

While,  with  his  arm  toward  heaven  flung, 

Tims  his  last  song  the  warrior  sunff: 
4* 


82  ULAH. 

"Let  the  gray  wolf  his  watches  keep : 
He  can  not  make  Oconee  weep ; 
Fierce  hunger  in  his  breast  may  rave ; 
His  voice  is  strong,  his  heart  is  brave. 

u  Who  says  the  chieftain  fears  to  die? 
Let  the  keen  winds  of  night  reply ; 
And  with  a  loud,  unfailing  breath, 
Repeat  his  happy  song  of  death. 

"  He  need  not  be  ashamed;  his  bow 
Has  laid  no  weeping  woman  low ; 
No  boy  has  trembled  at  his  tread ; 
His  hand  has  scalped  no  brother's  head. 

a  Ere  yet  his  early  years  had  gone, 
He  learned  to  chase  the  flying  fawn ; 
Scared  the  bold  eagle  from  his  nest, 
And  sent  the  arrow  to  his  breast. 

u  The  prairie-wolf,  his  voice  to  hear, 
Crept  to  his  hole  and  shook  with  fear ; 
And,  if  he  sought  the  forest  wide, 
The  screeching  panther  turned  aside. 

"  Great  Tautometa's  bloody  hand 


ULAH.  83 

Smote  the  weak  tribes,  and  fired  the  land; 
Oconee's  fleet,  unerring  dart 
Drank  the  red  river  of  his  heart. 

"Wi-com-i-ket  was  tall  and  brave 
As  trees  that  in  the  storm-wind  wave ; 
With  bursting  yell,  he  scared  the  day; — 
Oconee  tore  his  scalp  away. 

"  Now,  while  the  night's  great  shadows  fall, 
Oconee  hears  his  father  call ; 
And  sees  the  sunbeam  in  the  west, 
That  waits  to  guide  him  to  his  rest. 

A<Who  says  the  chieftain  fears  to  die  ? 
Let  the  loud  winds  fling  back  the  lie! 
And,  stooping  downward,  tell  the  wave 
How  glad  his  heart  is,  and  how  brave." 

Weak  mockery  of  bravery !     High 
The  trembling  voice  essayed  to  fly ; 
Swift  but  uncertain  cleft  the  air, 
And  hung  awhile  suspended  there ; 
Then  dropped,  like  arrow-smitten  bird, 
And  its  last  carol  died  unheard 


84  ULAH. 

Tht,  starving  moon  that  walked  the  sky, 

With  pallid  face  and  patient  eye, 

Had  pined  away,  with  wasting  charms, 

And  died  in  evening's  circling  arms; 

When,  to  the  boulder's  towering  head, 

His  braves  the  chief,  Pauwega,  led. 

No  more  the  fires  of  anger  burned; 

And  even  glutted  vengeance  turned 

From  his  cold  prey.    No  dripping  blood 

Had  stained  the  rock  with  crimson  flood; 

But  heavily  each  warrior-head 

Was  pillowed  on  its  rocky  bed ; — 

And  never,  in  its  loftiest  hour, 

Seemed  crowned  with  more  maj  estic  power ; 

A  power  that  struck  each  living  heart 

With  icy  fear,  as  with  a  dart ; 

And  pressing  back  each  sighing  breath, 

Triumphed  o'er  hatred,  e'en  in  death. 


AVrapped  to  her  chieftain's  faithful  breast. 
Did  Ulah  take  her  dreamless  rest. 
The  dark,  wind-shaken  ivy  trailed 
Above  her  brow,  so  meekly  vailed 
With  drooping  tresses,  and  her  face 
Smiled  on  its  swarthy  resting-place, 


ULAH.  85 

Like  a  sweet  flower  of  summer,  lain 
In  autumn  on  the  flame-scorched  plain. 

As  streams,  that  to  the  giddy  verge 
Where  rolls  the  cascade's  beaten  surge, 
Their  wild  and  willful  courses  urge, 
Along  their  green  banks  gliding,  single, 
Till  near  the  edge  their  torrents  mingle, 
Then,  clasping  closely  loving    palms, 
Chanting,  in  death  concordant  psalms, 
Leap  down  to  linked  and  endless  calms ; — 
So  were  these  savage  lovers.     Deep 
And  peaceful  their  eternal  sleep  1 
Who,  such  united  fate  could  weep? 


NOTES. 

THAT  I  may  stand  in  no  danger  of  being  thought  guilty  of  literary 
piracy,  I  subjoin  the  following,  which  I  found  drifting  away  to  obliv 
ion,  on  the  flood  of  newspaper  literature ;  and  which  is  the  founda 
tion  of  my  little  story. 

I  must,  however,  do  myself  the  justice  to  say,  that  before  meeting 
with  this  version  of  the  legend,  I  had  framed  for  myself  the  skeleton 
of  a  narrative  quite  similar  to  this,  and  in  connection  with  the  very 
rock  which  has,  unquestionably,  been  the  scene  of  some  disastrous 
event.  But  thinking,  perhaps,  there  was  some  degree  of  authentic 
ity  about  the  story  already  published,  I  at  once  abandoned  my  own 
plan,  and  proceeded  to  appropriate  the  work  of  some  unknown  indi 
vidual;  for  which  grand  larceny,  possibly,  my  readers  would  gra 
ciously  pardon  me,  did  they  know  my  own  explanation  of  the  mystery 
of  "Starved  Rock." 

It  will  be  observed,  that  the  story  has  undergone  some  alteration  in 
my  hands ;  but  I  hope  I  have  not  materially  lessened  its  beauty.  I 
have  endeavored,  very  likely,  with  indifferent  success,  to  "  clothe  the 
bare  bough  with  sunny  flowers ;"  and,  for  this  purpose,  have  grafted 
in,  here  and  there,  a  scion  from  my  own  stock. 

But  here  you  have  the  legend,  as  it  first  appeared,  under  the  title 
of 

"THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  STARVED  ROCK. 
"  In  the  c  far  West,1  where  broad,  rolling  prairies  stretch  away  for 


ULAH. 


87 


miles  in  billowy  undulations,  towering  up  from  the  brink  of  a  stream, 
rises  a  large  boulder,  called  'Starved  Rock.' 

"  Its  walls  are  of  dark  gray  stone,  half  vailed  with  clambering 
wild- vines  and  trailing  mosses— as  some  dilapidated  castle,  relic  of 
feudal  times,  stands  wrapped  in  the  drapery  which  long  ages  have 
woven  around  it ;  and  broken  parapets,  of  stinted  cedars  and  firs, 
frown  threateningly  at  the  daring  adventurer  who  attempts  to  scale 
its  precipitous  steeps.  A  narrow,  almost  perpendicular  path,  on  the 
side  opposite  from  the  river,  is  revealed  as  you  make  a  circuit  of  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  and  he  who  would  reach  the  highest  elevation  of  the 
rock  can  ascend. 

"  There  is  a  fugitive  tale  commemorating  the  events  which  gave 
this  wild  cliff  so  singular  a  name.  Long  years  ago,  the  brave  and 
noble  Indian  chief,  Oconee,  leader  of  a  powerful  tribe,  inhabiting  the 
surrounding  regions,  saw  and  loved  the  gentle  Ulah,  daughter  of  his 
powerful  rival,  the  chieftain  of  a  neighboring  tribe. 

"Oconee  was  young  and  brave  ;  and  no  warrior  in  the  chase  could 
bring  down  the  fleet  deer,  or  the  fierce  prairie-wolf,  so  sure  as  he. 

"  Ulah  was  young  and  fair,  with  eyes  like  the  evening  star,  and 
dusky  locks,  like  the  gathering  shades  of  night.  She  loved  the 
brave  Oconee ;  and,  when  he  told  her  that  his  wigwam  was  spread 
with  softest  furs,  and  would  she  consent  to  share  it,  for  her  he  would 
chase  the  deer  and  bring  the  young  eaglet  to  her  feet ;  then,  in  the 
midnight,  she  crept  away  from  her  father's  lodge,  and  stole  away  with 
the  young  chieftain. 

"  Ne-pow-ra  missed  his  daughter  from  his  wigwam.  When  he  came 
at  evening  from  the  toils  of  the  hunt,  she  sprang  not  forth  to  meet 
him ;  when  he  came  from  the  war-path  or  deadly  ambuscade,  exult 
ing  in  victory,  she  went  not  forth  with  his  braves,  singing  the  war- 
songs  of  her  race. 

"  The  daughter  of  a  chieftain  was  in  the  wigwam  of  his  deadly  foe. 
He  could  not  brook  the  insult ;  and  gathering  his  bold,  fleet  warriors 
about  him  at  the  council-fire,  he  recounted  the  wrong  he  had  suffered, 
and  bade  them  follow  him  to  avenge  it. 

"Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  saw  them  on  the  trail  of  the  pur- 


88 


ULAH. 


sued,  guided  by  the  starry  heavens  overhead,  and  the  forest  wilds  be 
neath.     Westward  the  stars  of  night  guided  their  footsteps. 

"  On  the  fourth  day,  the  eagle  gaze  of  the  fugitives  saw  the  waving 
plumes  of  their  pursuers  in  the  distance.  Before  the  young  chief 
tain,  bold  and  high  rose  the  huge  rock,  on  the  brink  of  the  Illinois ; 
behind  came  the  enraged  Ne-pow-ra,  with  the  fierce  warriors  of  his 
tribe,  the  wind  floating  their  wild  cries  of  vengeance,  and  dancing 
ever  nearer  and  nearer  their  eagle  plumes. 

"  The  pursued  Oconee,  with  his  dusky  maiden,  and  a  small  band  of 
his  faithful  braves,  fled  to  the  rocky  fortress  —  the  tower  of  strength  — 
that  rose  precipitously  in  their  path.  

"  On,  on  came  the  pursuers,  with  wild  shouts  and  unearthly  yells; 
on,  on  until  they,  too,  reached  the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  then  shouting  a 
loud  war-cry,  they  rushed  swiftly  up  the  narrow  pathway,  resolved  to 
meet  the  enemy  oil  the  summit.  But  the  young  chieftain's  arm  was 
strong  ;  his  arrows  swift  and  sharp,  and  his  braves  resolved  to  fight 
until  the  death  ;  so,  one  after  another,  as  the  warriors  below  sought 
to  ascend  the  cliff,  they  were  pierced  by  the  unerring  arrows  from 
above,  till  they  fell  back,  bleeding  and  wounded,  amid  their  com 
panions. 

"  Then,  failing  in  this  attempt,  with  half  their  band  lying  dead  around 
them,  the  survivors  closed  in  dark  ranks  about  the  base  of  the  rock, 
under  cover  of  the  firs,  with  sullen  silence,  and  invincible  determi 
nation,  to  await  the  slow,  lingering,  horrible  death  of  their  victims,  in 
the  gloomy,  desolate  fortress  above. 

"Day  after  day,  the  red  sun  rose  in  the  orient,  wheeled  across  the 
burning  heavens  slowly  toward  the  western  horizon;  but,  to  those 
on  the  high,  huge  boulder  of  gray  stone,  no  relief  came. 

"  Still,  day  by  day,  the  withering  sunbeams  fell  upon  them,  drying 
up  their  very  life-blood  ;  still,  night  by  night,  those  gigantic  shadows 
crept  closer,  shrouding  their  hearts.  They  were  starving. 

"And  there,  too,  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  silent  and  dusky,  as  the  firs 
which  shrouded  them  from  the  fierce  sun-ray,  sat  that  implacable 
chieftain,  surrounded  by  his  warriors.  Neither  love,  mercy,  nor  pity 
entered  his  heart.  His  bitterest  foe  had  stolen  his  fairest  flower ; 
vengeance  on  them  both  —  the  bitter  foe,  the  faithless  daughter! 


ULAH.  89 

Strong  warriors  who  had  not  quailed  in  the  deadliest  combat,  now 
sank  down,  like  reeds  before  the  breath  of  famine.  With  plenty  be 
neath  them,  they  were  starving  I  Oh,  it  was  horrible  ! 

"And  then  the  Indian  maiden  came  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice; 
and,  with  her  long,  dark  hair  streaming,  like  the  folds  of  a  rent  ban 
ner  on  the  air,  bent  down  and  pleaded  with  agonized  gestures  and 
frantic  entreaties  to  her  sire,  whom  she  saw,  far,  far  below.  But  never 
a  tone  of  tenderness,  or  a  token  of  reconciliation,  went  up  from  that 
insulted  soul.  He  had  chosen  the  Indian's  revenge  I 

"  Day  by  day,  that  doomed  band  thinned  away,  until  at  length  Fam. 
ine,  alone,  remained  conqueror,  on  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  No 
ghostly  forms  wandered  about ;  no  wailing  woman's  voice  broke  the 
silence. 

"  When  all  was  silent  upon  the  summit,  the  avenged  chieftain  and 
his  band  ascended. 

"  The  Indian's  wrath  was  appeased;  his  vengeance  had,  indeed,  been 
terrible.  There  they  lay  upon  the  gray  rock,  those  skeleton-like 
forms,  all  stark  and  stiff;  and  there,  too,  the  gentle  Indian  maiden, 
Ulah,  had  died  in  the  arms  of  her  lover ;—  her  ghastly  face  still  bear 
ing  the  impress  of  woman's  devotion  in  her  death  hour ;  her  long, 
streaming  hair  at  once  her  bridal  vail  and  shroud. 

"And  now,  it  is  said,  full  oft,  by  the  pale,  shimmering  moonlight, 
are  seen,  wan,  ghostly  figures,  gliding  to  and  fro  upon  the  cliff,  with 
dark  plumes  floating  upon  the  night  wind  ;  and  ever  and  anon  the 
spectral  forms  of  the  Indian  maiden  and  her  dusky  warrior-lover 
stand  hand  in  hand  upon  the  brink,  and,  in  low,  wailing  voices, 
chant  their  death  dirge,  ere  they  go  afar  through  the  gate  of  Famine, 
to  dwell  together  in  the  Great  Spirit's  happy  hunting-grounds.  Thus 
runs  the  Legend  of  Starved  Rock." 


mine  ! 


••And,  lo  !  as  we  husked  them,  the  red  ears  were 
It  is  a  superstition  among  the  Indian  maidens  that  whoever  find? 
ved  ear,  while  plucking  the  corn,  is  sure  of  a  husband. 


90  ULAH. 

b  The  Des  Plaines  river,  after  its  union  with  the  Fox,  becomes  the 
Illinois.  Although  the  western  rivers  are  almost  invariably  fringed 
with  forest,  yet,  the  "  oldest  inhabitant"  of  the  region  of  country  here 
described  will  tell  you  that  time  was  when  this  stream  ran  through 
an  unwooded  land,  where  the  eye  could  sweep  for  miles,  seeing  only 
now  and  then  a  grove. 

°An  incident  similar  to  this,  I  am  told,  happened  during  a  war  be 
tween  the  Indians  and  Whites  in  that  vicinity.  A  spy  concealed 
himself  amid  the  dense  branches  of  the  burr-oak,  and  was,  thereby, 
enabled  to  report  accurately,  among  the  Whites,  the  movements  of 
the  enemy. 

4  The  prairie-wolf  lives  in  holes,  burrowed  in  the  open  plain,  of 
from  ten  to  thirty  feet  in  depth. 


THE  REIGN  OF  TRUTH. 

Ho,  ye  sluggish  nations  of  earth ! 

The  dark  bird,  Night,  from  her  haunt  has 

risen : 
And  through  the  land  a  sound  of  mirth 

Welcomes  the   sun  from  his  orient  prison. 
Awake!  for  the  fair,  broad  light  of  truth 
Is  bringing  this  old  world  back  to  youth. 

Long  has  it  lain  in  Tyranny's  arms, 

Compassed  about  with  doubt  and  terror; 

Wrathfully  tossed  in  mighty  storms, 
Borne  on  the  tides  of  wrong  and  error ; 

Yet  shall  nothing  the  ship  overwhelm  — 

Truth,  like  a  pilot,  takes  the  helm. 

Sorrow  haunteth  earth's  lowly  homes ; 

Frenzy  aboundeth,  and  superstition ; 
Vice,  at  the  gates  of  princely  domes, 

Enters  and  pleads  her  deadly  mission. 


92  THE   REIGN  OF    TRUTH. 

Lo !  where  Virtue,  and  Peace,  and  Ruth, 
Walk  by  the  side  of  queenly  Truth. 

Up,  ye  slumbering  ones,  awake! 

On  to  your  labor,  strong  and  hearty! 
Work  for  the  Truth— for  the  Truth's  dear  sake, 

Not  at  the  call  of  sect  or  party. 
On  to  the  struggle,  sons  of  earth ! 
Show  your  manliness ;  prove  your  worth. 

Mammon  hath  sold  the  poor  their  bread, 
Taking  their  strength  and  life  in  payment ; 

Pride  hath  lifted  her  mocking  head, 

Vain  of  the  price  of  her  rainbow  raiment. 

Scorn  them  all  with  their  hateful  arts ; 

Scourge  them  out  of  your  homes  and  hearts. 

Oh,  ye  lovers  of  Truth,  arouse ! 

What  care  ye  for  the  world's  opinion? 
See  where  cringing  Policy  bows ; 

Have  ye  a  mind  to  be  his  minion ; 
On,  at  the  cost  of  lash  or  stake ! 

Work  for  the  Truth— for  the  Truth's  dear 
sake! 


THE  REIGN  OF  TRUTH.  93 

All  humanity  cries  aloud, 

Cowering  under  a  dark  existence  ; 

Traveling  on  through  mist  and  cloud, 
Nowhere  seeing  a  happy  distance. 

Oh !  if  ye  long  for  bliss  and  ruth, 

Welcome  the  coming  of  queenly  Truth. 

Over  the  turbulent  sea  she  rides, 

Down  from  the  realms  of  light  descended ; 
Smiling,  she  governs  the  roaring  tides ; 

11  Peace !  "    At  her  word  the  storm  is  ended. 
Shout !  for  the  golden  reign  of  Truth 
Is  bringing  this  old  world  back  to  youth. 

On  to  the  future's  radiant  shore ! 

Soon  shall  hatred  to  love  be  turning ; 
Vice  and  error  shall  be  no  more ; 

Doubt  shall  flee  from  the  halls  of  learning. 
See  where  the  dark  bird,  Night,  departs ! 
Peace  shall  enter  your  homes  and  hearts. 


HIDE  AND  SEEK. 

Down  by  the  garden  paths,  winding, 

Fearing  to  laugh  or  to  speak, 
They  hid ;  and  Kate,  who  was  "blinding," 

Came  from  her  goal  to  seek. 

Under  the  flowering  currant, 
The  meddlesome  breezes  blew? 

And  carried  Susie's  white  garment 
Out  into  Katie's  view. 

Away,  with  musical  laughter, 

Over  each  bed  and  knoll, 
Katie,  with  Susie  after, 

Hurried  to  touch  the  goal. 

Then,  by  the  honeysuckle 

And  red  rose  clusters  gay, 
With  many  a  gleeful  chuckle. 

Both  of  them  looked  for  Mae. 


HIDE  AND  SEEK. 

They  peered,  with  dubious  glances, 
Where  the  bright  lily-worts  grew, 

Lifting  their  leaves,  like  lances, 
Out  of  the  morning  dew. 

In  all  its  pretty  regalia, 

Each  garden  posie  smiled; 
But  daffodil,  nor  dahlia, 

Covered  the  hidden  child. 

Then  they  talked  'neath  the  lilac  cover, 
And  said,  "Where  can  she  be? 

We  have  hunted  the  garden  over, 
But  nothing  of  Mae  can  see." 

Then  a  voice,  with  a  light  sweet  chuckle, 
Of  triumph  and  glee  combined, 

Rang  out  from  the  honeysuckle, 

"I  guess  it's  because  you're  so  blind.1' 


The  weeks  went  by ;  the  summer 

Lay  down,  with  her  flowers,  to  die ; 
The  red  leaves  dropped  upon  her, 
And  clouds  came  into  the  sky. 


96  HIDE  AND  SEEK. 

And  down  at  the  garden  ending, 
Mournfully  gazing  around, 

Two  little  girls  were  bending 
Over  a  newly-made  mound. 

Under  the  dark  atropa, 

Carefully  hidden  away, 
Slept  the  white-garmented  baby — 

The  delicate,  beautiful  Mae. 

• 

With  grief  in  their  sweet  eyes  lying, 

Tenderly,  hand  in  hand, 
Questioning  and  replying, 

Did  the  innocent  maidens  stand. 

"  Mamma  says,  the  dear  angels  love  us, 
And  come  to  us  every  day; 

May  be,  just  now,  they're  above  us, 
And,  with  them,  our  sister  Mae." 


"Then  why  can't  we  see  her,  Katie? 

Let's  look  for  her,  up  in  the  skies." 
And  upward,  with  tear-drops  weighty, 

She  lifted  her  azure  eyes. 


HIDE  AND  SEEK.  97 

Their  rivaling  blue  swept  the  ether, 

But  nothing  of  Mae  could  find ; 
She  whispered,  "I  can  not  quite  see  her; 

I  guess  it's  because  I  'm  so  blind." 


Sweet  children,  the  mists  of  the  morning 
Only  dim  the  white  clouds  in  the  blue ; 

Even  so  are  the  fair  wings  of  angels 
But  partially  hidden  from  you. 

Borne  into  our  arms  by  the  ocean 

Of  life-waves  that  surge  o'er  the  world, 

Ye  are  swayed  with  continual  motion, 
As  if  your  own  wings  were  unfurled. 

But  our  eyes  are  heavy  with  sorrow  ; 

We  wave  our  weak  wings  never  more  ; 
Your  hope  and  your  faith  we  must  borrow, 

Before  to  your  knowledge  we  soar. 
5 


PEACE. 

There  fell  upon  my  soul  a  shadow  dreary ; 

'Twas  the  heart's  evening  folio wirg  the  day; 
With  its  long  thought  my  toiling  brain  was 

weary, 

And  scarce  could  frame  the  prayer  my  lips 
would  say. 

In  the  soul's  oratorio,  kneeling  lowly, 

Thus  with  the  Giver  of  my  life  I  plead: 
"  Oh,  let  the  seraph,  Peace,  high-browed  and 

holy, 

Bind  her  white  flowers  around  my  aching 
head. 

All  my  sad  soul  dissolved  in  that  petition.; 

Then  to  my  prayer,  a  "still,  small  voice"  re 
plied, 
41  Peace,  of  love's  labor  is  the  glad  fruition  — 

The  heritage  that  waits  the  furnace-tried." 


PEACE.  99 

Then  answer   made   I  none — my  heart  was 

shaken ; 
As  the  spent  dove  clasped  by  the  hungry 

hawk, 

So  was  my  soul  by  gray-winged  dread  o'ertaken, 
And  felt  strange  doubts  its  mighty  yearnings 
mock. 

Then  said  I  to  my  soul,  "  Where  is  thy  labor? 
And  where  the  cure  thy  healing  touch  hath 

wrought  ? 
Hast  thou  sought  out  thy  sorrowing  friend  or 

neighbor, 
And  fed  him  with  the  bread  of  holy  thought? 

"Hast  thou    not  loved  thyself,  oh,   mournful 

spirit! 

More  than  all  living  things  on  land  or  sea? 
Thou  hast !     Then,  thine  own  bitter  thoughts 

inherit ; 

For  the  white  flowers  of  Peace  are  not  for  thee. 
"Never  for  thee,  until  thy  selfish  grieving 

Dies  in  warm  sympathy  for  others'  woe ; 
Then  shall  sweet  Peace,  unholy  darkness  cleav 


High-browed  and  radiant,  beside  thee  go." 


LOCUST  LEAVES.* 

I  listened  all  the  day, 

To  the  faint  leaf-songs  I  heard, 
Till  each  light  roundelay 

Thrilled  to  my  heart  like  a  word. 

Each  like  a  low,  sweet  word, 

And  out  of  the  words  there  grew 

A  tale,  but  faintly  heard; 

Yet  I  knew  in  my  heart  't  was  true. 

'Twas  true;  for  the  locust  leaves, 

That  gayly  and  airily  waltz 
From  the  window  up  to  the  eaves, 

Would  tell  to  me  nothing  false. 

"Dost  know,  dear  girl,"  they  said, 
t:That  an  old  and  mystic  spell 

*The  Teen  leaves  of  the  locust  tree  are  symbolical  of  a  buried  heart. 


LOCUST  LEAVES.  101 


Is  woven  about  the  head 
Of  the  tree  thbii 


"It  was  once/  ir/  tlie  Cages' 

When  the  sun  and  the  stars  were  blind, 
And  the  moon  went  groping  on 

For  the  light  she  could  not  find. 

"Or  ever  the  world  knew  day, 

Or  ever  an  eye  could  see, 
That  a  germ  in  the  dark  earth  lay ; 

'T  was  the  heart  of  the  locust  tree. 

"'Twas  the  heart  of  the  locust  tree, 

In  silence  awaiting  there 
The  touch  of  the  sunlight  free, 

And  the  breath  of  the  morning  air. 

"Then  a  shaft  of  warm,  new  light 
Gleamed  over  the  earth's  dark  way; 

'T  was  a  sweet  farewell  to  night ; 
'T  was  the  ushering  in  of  day. 

u  And,  lo  !  the  mountains  bowed, 
And  the  deepening  oceans  grew  ; 


102  LOCUST  LEAVES. 

And  forth  the  winged  cloud 
Went  laden  with  precso;as  dew. 

"The  frees,:  lite  stately  Mngs, 

Uprose  in  the  balmy  air ; 
And  their  branches  waved  like  wings ; 

But  the  locust  stood  not  there. 

"Low  down  in  darkness  slept 

The  little,  lifeless  germ ; 
And  the  ivy  o'er  it  crept 

With  the  serpent  and  the  worm. 

"The  sunlight,  on  its  bed, 
Could  never  a  thrill  impart ; 

And  the  wind  went  by,  and  said, 
"Tis  the  tree  of  the  buried  heart/ 

"It  chanced  that  an  angel  heard, 
'Mid  melodies,  light  and  free, 

The  sound  of  that  pitying  word, 
And  flew  to  the  buried  tree. 

"She  parted  the  ivy  vine, 

She  loosened  the  earth  around; 


LOCUST  LEAVES.  103 

And  the  rich  and  warm  sunshine 
Crept  into  the  clay-cold  ground. 

uShe  smiled,  and  afar  there  drew 
The  serpent  and  crawling  worm ; 

She  wept,  and  the  holy  dew 

Went  down  to  the  slumbering  germ. 

"  lCome  forth! '  the  angel  said; 

1  Lo !  all  things  wait  for  thee ; ' 
And  out  of  its  lowly  bed 
Uprose  the  locust  tree. 

"Broadly  its  branches  grew, 

With  sprays  all  slender  and  light ; 

And  flowers  that  had  caught  the  hue 
Of  the  angel's  robe  of  white. 

"And,  lo!  in  the  twilight  pale, 
Close  under  the  drooping  eaves, 

Thou  hearest  the  pleasant  tale 
Of  its  airily -waltzing  leaves." 

But  the  last  faint  gleam  of  day 
Stole  over  the  western  hill; 


T04  LOCUST  LEAVES. 

The  low  breeze  died  away, 

And  the  locust  leaves  were  still. 

And  I,  at  my  window-pane, 

Did  wonderingly  repeat 
To  my  heart,  again  and  again, 

Their  words  so  low  and  sweet. 

"And  there's  many  a  heart,"  I  said, 
"  That  needs  but  an  angel's  care, 

To  rise  from  its  shrouding  bed 
And  wake  from  its  deep  despair. 

uAnd  the  poisonous  things  above 
The  slumbering  heart  of  youth 

Would  flee  at  the  smile  of  love, 
And  fade  in  the  light  of  truth," 


GLEN  ELGIN. 

Sometimes,  when  my  lip  has  forgotten  its  mirth, 

When  the  pain  in  my  heart  makes  me  weary  of 
earth, 

When  my  cheek  has  grown  wet  with  the  fast- 
falling  tears, 

I  love  to  remember  my  earliest  years. 

Glen  Elgin,  my  home!  I  remember  it  well, 
Where,  bright  in  its  beauty,  the  cataract  fell; 
Where  the  sun-painted  bow  sweetly  smiled  on 

the  spray, 
And  the  crane  and  the  king-fisher  watched  for 

their  prey. 

I  remember  the  bower  that  the  long  branches 

made 
O'er  the  brake  and  the  dwarf-yew  that  grew  in 

the  shade, 
Where  the  robin  trilled  sweetly  his  beautiful 

song, 

5* 


106  GLEN  ELGIN. 

And  the  creek,  with  low  laughter,  went  rip 
pling  along. 

Where  I  laved  my  bare  feet  in  its  clear  run 
ning  tide, 

And  sprang  o'er  the  wild,  rugged  rocks  by  its 
side; 

And  climbed  through  the  rough  tangled  thick 
et,  to  search 

For  the  tart  sumac-drupe  and  the  fragrant 
black  birch. 

I  remember  the  place  where  so  often  I  stood, 
'Neath  the  cedar-crowned  rock,  in  the  depth 

of  the  wood, 
Where  the  Solomon's  seal  decked  the  green, 

mossy  bed, 
And  the  jack-in-the-pulpit  was    nodding   his 

head. 

I  used  to  lie  down  by  the  shadowy  spring, 

To  hear  the  shy  locust  his  monody  sing ; 

For   I   fancied,    (such   thoughts    through  the 

young  brain  will  reel,) 
'T  was  a  dear  fairy  grandmother  spinning  her 

wheel. 


GLEN  ELGIN.  107 

I  remember  the  course  of  the  bright-leaping  rill, 
As  it  stole  from  the  spring  down  the  side  of 

the  hill, 
Where  the  light  was  so  dim  all  the  long  sum 

mer  day, 
And  the  jewel-weed  blossomed,  impatient  and 


'Tis  years   since  I  wandered,  a  light-hearted 

child, 
Through  the  depth  of  that  valley,  so  tangled 

and  wild; 
Since  I  gathered  the  pale,  purple  flowers  of 

the  glade, 
And  bounded  in  glee  by  the  foaming  cascade. 

I  am  wiser,  perhaps,  yet  so  little  of  woe 
Did  my  soul   in  its  freshness  and  purity  know, 
That  I  love  to  remember,  wherever  I  roam, 
The  lovely  Glen  Elgin,  my  happiest  home. 


REMINISCENCES. 

WRITTEN  AT  GLEN  ELGIN,  1856. 

Ah!    once  again  the  well-known  road, 

With  eager  feet,  I  tread; 
And  memories  come  thronging  back, 

Of  days  that  long  since  fled, 
When  merry  forms  were  here,  that  now 

Lie  low  among  the  dead. 

On  either  side,  the  tall  pines  bend, 

To  greet  me  as  I  go; 
And  voices,  with  their  murmurs,  blend 

In  welcome,  soft  and  low. 
They  seem  to  me  like  dear  old  friends, 

That  loved  me  long  ago. 

And  hark!   the  sound  of  singing  birds! 

The  birds  I  used  to  hear, 
Are  caroling  their  sweetest  songs 


REMINISCENCES. 


109 


To  greet  the  wanderer's  ear. 
Old  and  familiar  tunes  are  they 
To  my  young  childhood  dear. 

A  sound  of  laughter  pealeth  out  — 

A  ringing  shout  of  glee ; 
And  little,  active  forms,  beside 

Our  school-room  door,  I  see ; 
And  lo !  the  very  spot  where  stood 

Our  bench,  beside  the  tree. 

Around  these  deep,  secluded  woods, 

How  many  memories  cling ! 
Just  yonder  is  the  bending  bough, 

Whereon  we  used  to  swing ; 
And  here 's  the  very  log  where  we 

Our  noontide  meal  would  bring. 

And  here,  along  this  beaten  path, 
We  ran,  with  childish  grace, 

And  dipped  our  heated  feet  within 
The  swiftly  running  "race;" 

Then  bent  above  the  wave,  and  laughed 
At  each  distorted  face. 


110  REMINISCENCES, 

And  here's  the  deep,  romantic  glen  — 

The  spot  most  loved  of  all, 
Where  brightly,  in  the  spring-time,  gleams 

The  swollen  waterfall, 
Where,  like  sweet  little  ones  at  play, 

The  answering  echoes  call. 

Among  these  broken,  moss-grown  rocks, 
I  Ve  dreamed  my  childish  dreams ; 

And  plucked  the  purple  flowers  that  grew 
Within  their  ragged  seams; 

And  listened  to  the  tiny  shouts 
Of  little  falling  streams  ; 

And  mocked  the  gleeful  songs  of  birds 

That  soared  above  my  head ; 
And  o'er  and  o'er  my  little  rhymes, 

In  musing  mood  have  said, 
Till  I  could  almost  think  the  rocks 

Have  learned  to  know  my  tread. 

I  call  aloud,  and  answering  words, 

From  rock  and  hill-side  ring ; 
Ah !  these  are  friends  that  will  not  mock 

The  simple  songs  I  sing; 
And,  while  I  have  one  memory  left, 

My  heart  shall  round  them  cling. 


A  CHICK- A-DEE  SONG. 

uChick-a-dee  dee  dee  dee  dee!" 

Now,  what  have  you  come  to  see, 
With  your  scholarly  "thinking  cap"  that  lies, 
Black  as  a  coal,  above  your  eyes, 
Like  a  college  president's  comical  crown, 
When  he  sits  in  stiff  commencement-gown, 
And  blinks  as  knowingly  as  though 
He  had  fathomed  all  deep  streams  below  ? 

Ah!  you  are  as  wise  as  he, 

Chick-a-dee  dee  dee  dee  dee. 

u Chick-a-dee !  chick-a-dee  dee  dee!" 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me, 
Little  philosopher  ?     Here  I  lie, 
Quietly,  under  your  studious  eye, 
While  you  peer,  and  ponder,  and  noisily  shout, 
Can  not  you  ferret  the  mystery  out? 
Saw  you  ever  so  queer  a  thing 
Out  of  the  green  earth  blossoming? 


112  A  CHICK-A-DEE  SONG. 

Is  it  plant,  or  shrub,  or  tree, 
Chick-a-dee,  chick-a-dee  dee  dee? 

u  Chick-a-dee  dee  dee  dee  dee!" 

How  dare  you  make  so  free! 
Pulling  so  petulantly  at  my  dress, 
What  is  it,  pretty  one  ?  can  not  you  guess  f 
Then  you  must  do  as  learned  gentlemen  do ; 
And  batter  the  wall  you  may  never  get  thro', 
With  so  many  bomb-shells  of  ponderous  words, 
That  you  quite  bewilder  the  ignorant  birds, 

Who  are  listening  to  you  and  me, 

And  they  cry,  "  Chick-a-dee, D.  D." 

"Chick-a-dee!  chick-a-dee  dee  dee!" 

What  a  musical  burst  of  glee ! 
Very  improper.     Hav  n't  you  heard, 
Curious,  little,  pedantic  bird, 
Certain  chick-a-dee  gossips  say, 
Parsons  shouldn't  be  light  and  gay? 
And,  clad  in  your  sober,  clerical  coat, 
With  a  white  cravat  around  your  throat, 
Do  you  know  you  are  preaching  to  me, 
Chick-a-dee!  chick-a-dee  dee  dee? 


A  CHICK- A-DEE  SONG.  113 

"Chick-a-dee  dee  dee  dee  dee!" 

How  many  a  thing  we  see, 
And  babble  about,  with  busy  tongue, 
That  puzzles  the  old  as  well  as  the  young ! 
And  who  with  flutter  and  noisy  shout, 
Could  ferret  every  mystery  out; 
And  weigh,  in  the  delicate  scale  of  mind, 
Each  new  and  wonderful  thing  we  find! 

Such  little  philosophers  we, 

Chick-a-dee!  chick-a-dee  dee  dee! 


A  SONG  FOE  REFORMERS. 

Sweep  on,  ye  bright  souls,  unaffrighted   and 

strong ; 

Sweep  on,  ye  were  born  to  annihilate  wrong. 
By  the  broad  sea  of  Progress  break  down  the 

high  piers, 
Where  the  bigot  would  anchor  futurity's  years. 

Sweep  on,  o'er  the  mountains,  where  legions 
have  striven, 

In  vain,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  cloud-curtained 
Heaven ! 

Where  they  trembled  to  hear  the  death-ava 
lanche  leap ; 

And  like  pebbles,  insensate,  were  hurled  down 
the  steep! 

Down,  down,  through  the  valleys  descend,  till 
ye  bear 

Your  sun-lighted  ensign  through  realms  of  des 
pair; 


A  SONG  FOR  REFORMERS.        115 

While,  like  happy  voiced  birds,  all  the  children 

of  clay 
Shall  be  startled  to  song  in  the  glory  of  day. 

Dark,  dark,  are  the  phantoms  ye  '11  meet  in  your 
path; 

And  wild  beasts  are  prowling,  on  missions  of 
scath ; 

'Mid  the  blackness  of  ignorance,  sulphurous  fire 

Streams  over  the  dark-wreathing  smoke  of  de 
sire. 

Lo !  this  dumb  ossuary,  the  world,  slumbers  still ! 

Clothe  anew  these  bare  bones,  by  the  might  of 
your  will ; 

Let  the  flames  of  your  passion,  all  sacred  and 
warm, 

Leap,  electric  and  glad,  through  each  death- 
smitten  form. 

Behold!  o'er  society's  storm-shaken  sea, 
The  tyrant,  aloft,  like  an  osprey,  rides  free ; 
Sail  down,  like  the  bald  eagle,  tameless  and 

brave, 
The  prey  from  his  ravishing  talons  to  save. 


116  A    SONG  FOR  REFORMERS. 

Yet,  be  not  the  eagle  that  robs  to  devour; — 
Let  mercy's  bow  smile  o'er  the  storms  of  your 

power; 

While  the  bird  seeks  his  nest  in  security  still ; — • 
For  ONE  sees  the  wrong — let  HIM  smite,  if  he 

will. 

Let    your   warcry    arise    o'er  the  king-ridden 

ground, 
Till  the  dull  ear  of  earthliness  thrills  at  the 

sound. 
Smite  the  riveted  fetters  that  bind  dcwii  the 

slave, 
Till  he  leaps,  in   his  joy,  like  a   wind-smitten 

wave. 

On,  on,  bright  reformers!    the  voice  of  your 

prayer, 
O'er  your  altars  of  sacrifice,  cleaves  the  dense 

air; 

The  Holy  One  hears,  and  his  answering  fires 
Fall  earthward,  to  hallow  your  funeral  pyres. 

Your  efforts  are  holy ;  your  faces  all  shine 
With  the  glow  ye  have  caught  from  the  ruler 
divine. 


A    SONG   FOR   REFORMERS.  117 

Ye  have  stood  on  the  mountain,  conversing 

with  Jove ; — 
Come  down  and  illumine  the  vales  with  your 

love. 

Ye  go  not  unguarded ;  for  where  ye  have  gone, 
The  sun-bright  battallions  of  glory  are  drawn ; 
And,  over  your  ways,  an  omnipotent  arm, 
By  the  strength  of  its  sacredness,  keeps  you 
from  "harm. 

Sweep  on!  when  your  heavenly  desirings  are 

crowned,  „ 
How  brightly  will  blossom  this  blood-reeking 

ground ; 
And,  the  earth,  like  a  soul,  from  its  sick  body 

riven, 
Shall  bathe  in  the  soft  healing  rivers  of  Heaven. 


THE  SILVER  CHALICE. 

The  morn  did  her  sweet  face  uplift. 
Beneath  her,  gathering  mists  did  drift, 
And  falling  rains  were  cool  and  swift. 

The  flowers,  by  holy  love  impelled, 
Drew  near  to  where  the  brooklets  welled, 
And  with  their  waves  sweet  converse  held, 

And  brooks  and  flowers  smiled  again, 
And  sang  in  love  the  low  refrain, 
"How  sweet,  how  gentle  is  the  rain." 

A  maiden,  in  the  early  day, 

Came  gliding  o'er  the  flowery  way, 

And  in  her  hand  a  chalice  lay. 

A  silver  chalice,  frail  and  light, 
As  lily's  lifted  cup  of  white, 
Or  tiny  sea-shell  vases  bright. 


THE    SILVER    CHALICE.  119 

'Twas  wrought  with  rare  and  wondrous  art, 
Like  curling  rose  leaves,  just  apart; 
Smile  not — at  was  the  maiden's  heart. 

The  lilies  bent  with  bashful  grace, 
As  by  their  side  the  maid  did  place, 
With  tender  care,  her  silver  vase. 

How  sweetly  shone  her  eye  of  blue, 
Where  eager  hopes  were  shining  through ; 
"Gather,"  she  said,  "Love's  holy  dew." 

The  light  came  down,  subdued  and  dim ; 
The  rain-drops  sang  their  morning  hymn; 
The  vase  was  laden  to  the  brim. 

The  maiden's  hand  reached  forth  to  take 
Her  chalice,  when,  by  flower  and  brake, 
Before  her,  came  a  gliding  snake. 

'T  was  rare  to  see  his  crest  of  red, 
As  lightly  to  the  maid  he  sped, 
With  quivering  form  and  lifted  head. 

'Twas  rare  to  see  each  rainbow  scale, 


120  THE    SILVER    CHALICE. 

That  clad  him  like  a  coat  of  mail, 
Changing  beneath  the  daylight  pale. 

And,  "If  thou  com'st,"  the  maiden  cried, 
"To  share  my  draught,  thou'rt  not  denied." 
The  serpent  glided  to  her  side. 

He  looked  into  her  laughing  face, 
Then  twined  around  her  silver  vase, 
And  crushed  it  in  his  dread  embrace. 

Ah!  had  the  maiden  learned  to  know 
That  pride  is  Love's  most  bitter  foe, 
She  had  not  felt  that  crushing  woe ; 

But,  with  the  flower  and  rippling  rill, 

Had  quaffed  Love's  precious  draught  at  will, 

And  borne  her  silver  chalice  still. 


CHARITY. 

Now,  what  bad  thing  is  this 

That  cowers  beside  the  spring  ? 
Surely,  the  hand  hath  wrought  amiss 

That  made  so  dull  a  thing. 
I  shudder  to  see  it,  and  shrink 
Away  to  the  furthest  brink ; 
For  its  black  eyes  stare  and  blink, 

With  a  look  of  reptile  guile ; 
And  I  can  but  sicken,  and  think 

It  is  loathsome  and  vile. 

Strange  that  evil  and  gloom 
Are  thrust  in  every  place ! 
I  can  not  pluck  a  summer  bloom, 

But  a  worm  is  on  its  face ; 
And  close  by  the  song-bird,  bliss, 
Like  a  frown  that  follows  a  kiss, 
Such  venomous  things  as  this 

Finish  the  tenderest  strain, 
6 


122  CHARITY. 

With  a  hateful  croak,  or  hiss, 
And  a  sound  of  pain. 

"Look!"  said  a  gentle  one, 

"It  lies  in  a  shady  lair ; 
I  draw  it  under  the  smiling  sun ; 

And,  lo !  it  is  good  and  fair. 
It  has  colors  of  green  and  gold, 
In  many  a  changeable  fold, 
And  in  its  delicate  feet  are  soled 

With  a  web,  like  a  tissue  of  Lisle. 
See  how  it  brightens  the  mold ! 

Is  it  loathesome  and  vile ! 

"So,  let  but  charity's  light, 

Shine  on  the  faultiest  thing, 
And,  straightway,  it  glistens  in  raiment  bright, 

As  if  it  were  blossoming. 
Behold!  it  is  not  alone, 
By  the  outward  look  and  tone, 
That  the  inmost  soul  is  known ; 

For  a  loving  heart  may  smile, 
When  a  darkened,  loveless  face  is  shown, 

And  we  cry,  "It  is  vile" 


WAITING. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  how  cool  and  still! 
The  light  crosses  o'er  from  hill  to  hill ; 
And  the  wind  has  forgotten  to  wing  so  low, 
Basking  above  in  the  sun's  soft  glow. 

Low  in  the  hollow, 

The  calm,  deep  hollow, 
I  wait  alone  —  alone,  in  my  woe. 

Down  in  the  hollow  stands  never  a  tree, 
To  bend  with  a  whisper  of  love  o'er  me ; 
But  the  bath-flower  patiently  leans  her  head, 
With  plenteous  tears,  on  the  moss-grown  bed. 

Low  in  the  hollow, 

The  calm,  still  hollow, 
I  wait,  with  a  tearless,  voiceless  dread. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  the  maidenhair 
Stands  unrocked  in  the  stirless  air, 
Where  the  silently -flowing,  sluggish  wave 
Hides  away  'neath  the  green  bank's  closing  cave, 


124  WAITING. 

Low  in  the  hollow, 
The  calm,  cold  hollow, 
How  drear  to  be  waiting  the  gloom  of  the  grave ! 

High  on  the  hillside — how  calm  and  bright, 
Is  the  fall  of  the  beautiful,  silvery  light ! 
And  the  wind  sings  a  psalm,  like  a  spirit  blest, 
With  the  passion  of  worship  warming  its  breast. 

High  on  the  hillside, 

The  glad,  bright  hillside, 
I  wait  for  a  glimpse  of  my  mansion  of  rest. 

High  on  the  hillside,  the  juniper  tree 
Leans  with  a  whisper  of  love  o'er  me, 
And  visitor  birds,  with  their  heaven  taught  lays, 
Rouse  my  glad  spirit  to  rapture  and  praise. 

High  on  the  hillside, 

The  echoing  hillside, 
My  voice  in  a  pean  of  joy  I  raise. 

High  on  the  hillside,  the  shadow  flies, 
Frightened  away  by  the  beautiful  eyes, 
That  look  at  me  o'er  the  heavenly  gate 
With  a  yearning  compassion  that  banishes  hate. 

High  on  the  hillside, 

The  love-bright  hillside, 
How  sweet  for  the  transfiguration  to  wait! 


THE  KING  OF  THE  NORTH. 

The  winter,    the   mirth   chilling   winter   hath 

passed 

From  our  home,  on  his  icy  track,  away ; 
And  hushed  is  the  shout  of  the  whirling  blast, 
And  the  sound  of  his  wild  and  solemn  lay. 

He  has  gone  to  the  north,  the  brave  old  north, 
Where  glimmer  his  crystal  palace-halls ; 
Where  never  is  heard  the  song  of  bird, 
Or  the  sound  of  rushing  water  falls. 

Where  stars  are  bright  in  the  pallid  night, 

He  stalks  alone,  like  a  sentry  old; 

He  smileth  not — he  weepeth  not; 

For  his  brow  and  his  heart  are  icy  cold. 

But  the  glance  of  his  eye  is  wild  and  high; 
And  the  sound  of  his  voice  is  clear  and  strong; 


126  THE    KING    OF    THE    NORTH. 

And  the  forests  sigh,  as  he  hurries  by, 
For  he  carols  a  bold  and  terrible  song. 

"I  sweep  o'er  the  earth,  bringing  wailing  and 
dearth ; 

And  my  sounding  wings  are  broad  and  fleet ; 

Woe !  woe  to  the  flowers,  of  the  warm  summer- 
hours, 

I  crush  them  all  with  my  snow-white  feet. 

The  clouds  that  lie  in  the  far  blue  sky, 

If  I  but  pass  with  my  chilling  breath, 

Rush  down  to  their  rest  on  the  world's  cold 

breast, 
As  white  as  the  brow  of  the  angel  Death. 

And  the  coward,  man,  grows  pallid  and  wan; 
And  he  shrinks  away  from  my  bold  embrace. 
I  laugh  at  his  plaint,  when  his  heart  grows  faint, 
And  I  mock  him  in  his  dwelling-place. 

But  I  love  to  stand  in  the  brave  north-land, 
Where  glimmer  my  crystal  palace-halls; 
Where  never  is  heard  the  song  of  bird, 
Or  the  sound  of  rushing  water  falls. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    NORTH.  127 

And  there,  in  the  gleam  of  the  star-light  beam, 
I  stalk,  like  a  sentry,  grim  and  old; 
And  I  sing  at  the  sight  of  the  northern  light ; 
But  my  brow  and  my  heart  are  icy  cold.'1 


THE   CHILD  — THE  MAIDEN  — THE 
MOTHER. 

When  the  world-awakening  sunlight 

Gushed  through  morning's  gates  of  pearl, 

From  the  realm  of  mystic  shadow 
Came  there  forth  a  little  girl. 

Wandering  by  the  winding  streamlets, 
'Neath  the  young  day's  loving  smile, 

Gathering  blue  and  golden  violets, 
Full  of  little  thoughts  the  while; 

Thus  the  poet-child  sped  fleetly, 

Twining  daises  in  her  hair, 
Wondering,  as  she  caroled  sweetly, 

Who  had  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Wondering  what  the  sun  was  doing, 
That  he  grew  so  bright  and  warm ; 


THE  CHILD THE  MAIDEN THE  MOTHER.    129 

Wondering  if  he  looked  beneath  him, 
And  espied  her  tiny  form. 

Half  believing  that  the  cloudlets. 

Floating  brightly  robed  above, 
Were  the  forms  of  angel  children - 

White  winged  messengers  of  love. 

Calling  to  them  as  they  passed  her, 
•   "Little  sisters,  hasten  here; 
Here  are  violets  and  daisies, 

And  the  brook  is  laughing  near. 

"I  will  give  you  all  my  flowers, 

Laden,  as  they  are  with  dew  ; 
And  the  birds  are  singing  softly ; 

Come,  and  they  will  sing  for  you. 

"Come  to  me!"  and  Echo  answered, 

U0h,  sweet  sister,  come  to  me!" 
Thinking  'twas  an  angel  calling, 

Laughed  she  then  in  quiet  glee. 

Murmuring  with  the  murmuring  zephyrs, 

Singing  with  the  singing  birds, 
6* 


130  THE  CHILD THE  MAIDEN THE  MOTHER. 

Hearing  every  thing  around  her 
Utter  low  and  loving  words. 

Thus  the  poet  child  sped  lightly, 
Like  a  dream  across  the  plain, 

With  her  blue  eyes  beaming  brightly, 
Caroling  her  simple  strain. 


In  a  dim  and  quiet  forest, 

Where  the  summer  breezes  strayed, 
With  a  low,  melodious  rustle, 

Walked,  at  noon,  the  poet-maid. 

Many  tender,  mournful  fancies, 

Busy  at  her  heart  alway, 
As  she  stole  along  the  pathway, 

Where  the  softened  shadows  lay. 

Through  the  branches  dropped  the  sunlight, 

Like  a  crown  upon  her  hair; 
And  a  thousand  rippling  noises, 

Melted  in  the  balmy  air. 


lamest  thought  her  young  brow  shadowed  , 
Tears  were  falling  from  her  eyes; 


THE  CHILD THE  MAIDEN THE  MOTHER  .  13J 

Murmuring  sadly,  while  the  breezes 
Uttered  low  and  sweet  replies. 

"  Oh,  the  air  is  weighed  with  music ! 

As  I  glide  these  aisles  along, 
Every  living  thing  around  me 

Sendeth  up  a  joyful  song. 

"  And  its  tiny  bells  uplifting, 

In  the  green  and  mellow  light, 
Blooms  the  lily  of  the  valley, 

Clad  in  vesture  snowy  white. 

"Flickering  sunlight  flames  around  me  ; 

Words  mysterious  thrill  my  ear ; 
Fancy's  golden  chain  hath  bound  me ; 

Even  love  might  loiter  here. 

"Beauteous,  quiet,  loving  nature! 

Like  a  harp  thy  rich  voice  sings, 
When  thy  great,  all- wise  Creator 

Lays  his  hand  upon  the  strings. 

U0h!   there  is  a  harp  that  slumbers 
In  the  heart,  in  silence  deep, 


132  THE  CHILD THE  MAIDEN THE  MOTHER. 

Breathing  only  its  sweet  numbers 
When  Love's  fingers  o'er  it  sweep. 

"Meek-eyed  lily  of  the  valley, 
Stainless  as  an  angel's  thought, 

Thou  art  flowering  larger,  whiter, 
By  the  holy  sunbeam  taught. 

"Bird,  that  swings  within  the  tree-top, 

In  a  deftly  woven  nest, 
'T  is  the  sunlight  brings  the  song- tide, 

Gayly  pulsing  from  thy  breast. 

"And,  'mid  all  the  wondrous  music 
Of  this  dim  and  voiceful  grove, 

Thus  my  darkened  spirit  yearneth 
For  the  blessed  light  of  love. 

"  As  the  sunlight  to  the  lily, 
As  the  perfume  to  the  breeze, 

As  the  young  bird  to  the  summer, 
As  the  green  leaves  to  the  trees, 

(i  As  the  starlight  to  the  evening, 
As  the  music  to  the  grove, 


TIIK  (MUM) 


Ti IK  MAIDEN  —  THE  MOT  1 1  !•;  It.    133 


As  the  dewfall  to  the  (lower, 
So  to  my  young  heart  is  love." 


Sadly  thus  the  poet-maiden 
Sa.ng  her  low,  unquiet  tune, 

While  around  her,  perfume-laden, 
Stole  the  balmy  breath  of, lime. 


On  a  steep  and  rugged  mountain, 
'Neath  UHJ  fading  eye  of  day, 

Walked  a  sad,  sick-hearted  mother, 
( )Vr  a  dark  and  toilsome  way. 

Autumn  winds,  around  her  sighing, 
Uttered  many  a  mournful  wsi.il ; 

In  UK;  west    the  sun  was  dying, 
And  the  light  was  cold  and  pale. 

• 
Dews  upon  her  head  were  falling; 

( !hill  ;md  damp  the  evening  air; 
And  the  mother,  faint  and  weary, 
Lifted  up  the  voiee  of  prayer. 


134  THE  CHILD THE  MAIDEN THE  MOTHER. 

"Holy  father,  guard  my  loved  ones," 
Thus  the  weeping  mother  cried; 

"Many  snares  are  spread  around  them ; 
Thou,  alone,  canst  safely  guide. 

"  From  thy  Being's  boundless  ocean, 
Thou  didst  draw  them  with  thy  smile ; 

Keep  these  dew-drops  of  the  human 
From  the  courses  that  defile. 

"As  the  breaking  cloud  of  evening 

Flings  its  rain  upon  the  sea, 
So,  ETERNAL  WAVE  of  fullness, 

Do  I  leave  my  pearls  with  thee." 

Earnest,  loving-hearted  mother, 

Voices  call  thee  from  afar; 
Lo !  above  thy  darkened  pathway, 

Beameth  evening's  golden  star. 

Lo !  the  child  hath  heard  an  angel ; 

Love  hath  cheered  the  maiden's  breast; 
And  the  weary,  suffering  mother 

Entereth  an  eternal  rest. 


THE  TIDE  OF  LIFE. 

Oh,  silent  and  mysterious  tide  ! 
Where'er  thy  gentle  waters  glide, 
Sweet  living  things  awake  and  move, 
Responsive  to  thine  earnest  love. 

Along  the  world's  continuous  round, 
How  do  thy  surging  waves  abound ! 
•Throbbing,  with  sway  supremely  mild, 
In  bird,  in  rosebud,  or  in  child. 

Nature,  thine  handmaid,  guides  the  way, 
Across  the  bare,  unfruitful  clay ; 
And  the  dumb  seed,  unthrilled  before, 
Opes  wide  for  thee  her  darkened  door. 

Thou  enterest  in  ;—  from  earth's  cold  breast, 
Transformed  she  springs,  in  beauty  dressed  ; 
Glad  in  existence  just  begun, 
Shakes  her  green  garments  in  the  sun. 


136  THE  TIDE  OF  LIFE. 

From  the  brown  mold  the  lilies  rise, 
Slow  to  unveil  their  dreamy  eyes, 
Like  maiden,  on  her  marriage-day, 
Bending,  with  folded  hands,  to  pray. 

The  rustling  reeds  rock  to  and  fro 
With  gentle  sound,  sedate  and  slow, 
Like  mother,  when  the  day  is  dim, 
Chanting  a  love-born  cradle-hymn. 

Oh,  wondrous  tide  of  life !     Thy  power 
Paints  cheek  and  lip,  robes  tree  and  flower; 
Whererer  thy  tiny  globules  press, 
Each  atom  shines  in  loveliness. 

Thou  'rt  beating  in  my  brain  and  heart ; 
Oh,  tell  me  whence  and  what  thou  art! 
Yain  questioning!   e'en  now,  with  speed 
Thy  ever-rolling  waves  recede. 

And  through  my  heart,  subdued  and  slow, 
The  heavy  feet  of  Sorrow  go ; 
While  brown  Decay,  with  failing  breath, 
Leads  in  her  pallid  daughter,  DEATH. 


THE  TIDE  OF  LIFE.  137 

Oh,  life  !  roll  back  thy  sparkling  wave ! 
Stranded,  I  tremble  by  the  grave; ' 
I  stretch  my  freezing  arms  to  plead ; 
Yet,  still,  thy  mocking  waves  recede. 

Oh,  thou  art  pure  and  silver-white! 
Art  kindly,  beautiful  and  bright! 
Art  healing  as  Bethsada's  pool. 
Art  soft,  and  sweet,  and  dewy-cool  ! 

An  inlet  from  the  flood  divine  ; 
And  yet,  ah,  life  !  thou  art  not  mine. 
Adown  my  breast  thy  waters  play, 
And  softly,  slowly  ebb  away. 

Slowly  and  softly— hush,  my  heart! 
Let  the  last,  loitering  wave  depart ; 
For,  surely  as  its  eddies  go, 

Another  tide  of  life  must  flow. 

•*» 

Another  tide  ;  and,  oh,  how  sweet ! 
Will  rise,  and  lift  thee -from  thy  feet. 
All  silver-white,  'twill  bear  thee  on, 
And  softly  land  thee  at  the  THRONE. 


THE  LABORING  MAN. 

I  like  the  honest  laboring  man ! 

A  soldier,  brave  and  strong, 
In  the  good  war  he  leads  the  van  — 

A  worthy  theme  for  song. 

I  like  him,  that  he  likes  himself, 
And  scorns  to  sink  so  low, 

As  to  assoil  his  soul  for  pelf, 

Though  pressed  by  want  and  woe. 

I  like  him,  that  he  wears  no  cloak 

To  hide  an  inward  ill ; 
But  moves  among  all  human  folk, 

A  human  being  still. 

I  like  him  for  the  love  he  bears 
His  earnest,  toiling  wife  — 

A  love,  that  lights  her  cloudiest  cares, 
And  glorifies  her  life. 


THE    LABORING    MAN.  139 

I  like  him  for  the  tender  flower 

That  blossoms  on  his  cheek, 
When  he  has  used  his  willing  power, 

To  guard  the  small  and  weak. 

Just  such  a  man  was  he — my  sire, 

With  heart  of  giant  bulk, 
That  would  not  leave  the  ship,  though  fire 

Had  wrapped  its  sinking  hulk. 

Toiling,  from  morn  till  night,  to  send 

Grim  poverty  away ; 
An  honest  man  —  an  ardent  friend: — 

A  Christian  every  day. 

Twelve  little  spirits  crowned  his  life: 

Beneath  love's  pleasant  eyes, 
Nine  gird  themselves  for  earthly  strife, 

Three  sought  the  peaceful  skies. 

Each  birth  brought  added  joy  to  him 

And  added  labor  too ; — 
At  every  death  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

To  find  no  more  to  do. 

His  wife  —  pur  mother — when  he  found 
Her  weary,  how  he  gave 


140  .        THE    LABORING   MAN. 

His  ready  help,  before  a  sound 
The  little  boon  could  crave. 


Which  of  us  can  not  say  how  much 
He  loved  us; — how  his  voice 

Could  soothe,  and  how  his  gentle  touch 
Made  the  young  heart  rejoice? 

In  our  young  childhood's  healthy  bloom, 

Led  by  a  wayward  will, 
We  followed  him  from  loom  to  loom, 

And  wondered  at  his  skill. 

Pleased  to  receive  his  kind  command  — 

Of  father  patience  full — 
We  learned,  with  slow,  mistaking  hand, 

To  card  the  fleecy  wool. 

With  gentle  talk  our  thoughts  he  spun 
To  threads,  complete  and  strong; 

And,  by  his  careful  skill  begun, 
The  web    will  wear  us  long. 

One  day  (alas!  that  suns  should  glow, 
In  spring  o'er  hill  and  vale, 


THE    LABORING   MAN.  141 

And  our  life's  autumn  sunlight  grow 
So  deadly  cold  and  pale;) 

He  left  his  work  —  all  slow  and  weak, 

With  frequent  laboring  sigh, 
With  drooping  head  and  pallid  cheek, 

He  sought  our  home  to  die. 

With  woe-worn  hearts,  a-near  we  came, 

And  circling,  stood  about, 
To  see  love's  mild  and  tender  flame, 

In  death's  dark  wave  go  out. 

Ah,  me !  the  grave-king's  icy  breath 

Had  sudden  deadly  power. 
Within  the  arctic  land  of  death, 

We  planted  life's  fair  flower. 

And,  as  we  turned  away,  we  said, 

With  tears  on  heart  and  face, 
Its  holy  perfume  now  was  shed, 

Within  a  kindlier  place. 

God  bless  the  honest  laboring  man ! 

And  sweeten  all  his  toil ! 
Keep  him  from  harboring  selfish  plan, 

Or  swelling  wild  turmoil. 


142  THE    LABORING   MAN. 

And,  when  he  gathers  up  his  feet, 
And  vails  his  blinding  eyes, 

Kind  Father,  give  him  labor  sweet, 
In  the  seraphic  skies. 


DREAM-LAND. 

Oh!  home  of  the  heart!  if  thy  glad  morning 

light 

Can  charm  from  my  spirit  the  shadow  of  night, 
Let  me  leave  the  dark  world,  e'er  its  cares  shall 

o'erwhelm, 
And  linger  awhile  in  thy  song-haunted  realm. 

For  the  storm  sweepeth  by,  and  his  wing  is  so 

dark, 

I  am  weary  of  guiding  my  fragile  life-bark ; 
Lo!  worn  out  with  toil,  reason  faints  at  the 

helm, 
Let  me  linger  awhile,  in  thy  song-haunted  realm. 

Bright  fancy,  its  monarch,  shall  guide  me  afar, 
To  the  land  where  no  storm-cloud  my  quiet  can 

mar; 

All  day,  from  the  cold  world  I'll  linger  apart, 
In  beautiful  dream-land,  the  home  of  the  heart. 


144  DREAM-LAND. 

My  dull  eye  shall  beam  on  the  bluest  of  skies, 
And  the  dew  of  sweet  thought  my  worn  spirit 

baptize ; 

And  the  sunlight  of  love,  at  my  heart  creeping  in, 
Shall  chase  far  away  the  dark  shadow  of  sin. 

The  gush  of  sweet  music  shall  banish  despair ; 

For  the  spirit  of  melody  lingereth  there ; 

And  chastened  and  thrilled  with  her  magic  and 
might, 

The  heart  of  the  dreamer  grows  wild  with  de 
light. 

Oh !  visions  of  beauty !  how  sweetly  ye  rise, 
In  the  bright  land  of  dreams,  to  my  wondering 

eyes! 

And  fairer  than  light  are  the  scenes  ye  unfold, 
As  ye  waft  me  along  on  your  pinions  of  gold. 

Oh!  the  care-laden  world  maybe  shrouded  in 

night; 

But  dream-land  is  floating  in  music  and  light. 
The  dim  eye  gets  brighter,  the  weak  heart 

grows  strong, 
'Neath  the  sheen  of  its  beauty,  the  chime  of  its 

song. 


DREAM-LAND.  145 

No  music  more  soul-thrilling  bliss  can  impart 
Than  the  carol  of  fancy,  that  bird  of  the  heart ; 
All  graceful  and  pure,  as  a  snowy-winged  dove, 
She  soareth  aloft  in  the  sunlight  of  love. 


DEW-DROPS  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

' '  Little  flower,  what  dost  thou, 

With  that  coroneted  brow, 

Sitting,  all  the  stilly  eves, 

Princess-like,  'mid  courtier-leaves  ?  " 
And  the  posie  answered  low ; 
Or,  at  least,  I  fancied  so ; — 
u'Tis  my  sole,  sweet  work  to  grow." 

"Little  birdie,  stay  and  tell 
Why,  from  out  thy  bosom's  well, 
Burst  such  rivulets  of  song ; 
Sure,  such  constant  mirth  is  wrong!" 

"Nay!"  said  the  melodious  thing, 

As  he  flew  on  airy  wing, 
'Tis  a  sacred  joy  to  sing." 


it  IT 


Streamlet,  in  thy  pathway  pause ; 
Tell  me  all  thy  little  laws. 


DEW-DROPS    OF    KNOWLEDGE.  147 

Why  do  green  leaves,  at  thy  brink, 
Scoop  thy  pearly  wave  to  drink?" 
And  the  pretty  streamlet  laughed—- 
uHast  thou,  mortal,  never  quaffed 
Dewy  love's  delicious  draught?" 

Then  I  sat  and  mused  awhile ; 
And  I  murmured  with  a  smile, 
"How  the  mind  will  strain  to  reach 
Truths,  that  lowliest  things  can  teach ! 
Now,  of  verity,  I  know, 
While  eternal  suns  shall  glow, 
We  shall  sing,  and  love,  and  grow." 


LIFE'S  WARFARE. 

[t  is  a  toilsome  task  to  walk 
The  straight  and  narrow  way, 

And  tempters  stand  on  every  side, 
To  lead  the  soul  astray. 

And  oft,  deceived  by  guileful  words, 

The  spirit  will  not  heed 
The  warning  voice,  but  walketh  on, 

Where'er  the  tempters  lead. 

Pride  thrills  the  foolish,  wayward  heart, 

With  bitter,  scornful  tone, 
Till  love  unfurls  her  snow-white  wings, 

And  leaves  the  soul  alone. 

Suspicion  weaves  her  dark  conceits, 
And  cons  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

Till  heavenly  faith,  with  golden  robe, 
Walks  with  the  soul  no  more. 


LIFE'S  WARFARE.  149 

Deceit,  with  hollow,  harmful  wiles, 

And  heart  of  dark  unrest, 
Robs  truth— bright  seraph  — of  her  home, 

Within  the  yeilding  breast. 

The  fire  that  passion  kindles  there, 

Unsmothered  by  control, 
Leaves  purity  no  dwelling-place, 

Within  the  troubled  soul. 

And  justice  can  not  rule  the  heart 

Where  jealousy  hath  sway; 
And  hatred,  with  her  sneer  and  frown, 

Drives  charity  away. 

Ah!  the  weak  soul!  it  toileth  on 

At  warfare  all  the  while ; 
On  life's  dark  clouds  it  scarce  can  see 

The  bow  of  promise  smile. 

Its  firm  resolves,  its  earnest  hopes, 

Its  yearnings  after  light, 
Seem  transient,  as  the  idle  words 

The  winds  do  sing  at  night. 

Still  onward,  onward  to  the  grave, 
Its  hurrying  footsteps  tend, 


150  LIFE'S   WARFARE. 

In  mystery  life's  path  begins; 
In  mystery  doth  it  end. 

Yet  not  alone  the  soul  doth  go ; 

Bright  messengers  of  light, 
Are  walking  with  it  day  by  day, 

To  guide  its  steps  aright. 

And  when  the  tempters  have  deceived, 

And  led  the  soul  astray, 
Oh!  tenderly  they  call  it  back, 

To  walk  the  narrow  way ! 

And,  more  than  all,  the  Father's  hand 
His  erring  child  doth  hold ; 

The  loving  Shepherd  guardeth  well 
The  lambkin  of  the  fold. 

Then  faint  not,  soul,  that  stumbleth  on, 

A-weary  and  unblest; 
A  little  while,  thy  Father's  voice 

Shall  summon  thee  to  rest; 

And  then,  within  the  pearly  gates, 
Beside  the  tree  of  life, 


LIFE  8    WARFARE.  151 

How  light  a  thing,  amid  thy  bliss, 
Will  seem  thine  earthly  strife. 

Joy  to  thee,  then!  a  conqueror's  crown 

Upon  thy  spirit-brow; — 
What  soul  that  dwelleth  there,  could  be 

More  sweetly  blest  than  thou? 


THE  WIND. 

The  wind  came  over  the  hills  one  day, 

Singing  a  charming  tune; 
As  light  and  low  as  the  sleepy  lay, 

Of  a  humming-bird  in  June. 

I  should  not  have  heeded  his  idle  song, 
But  his  breath  was  on  my  face, 

And  his  arms  around  my  neck  were  flung, 
In  a  fairy -like  embrace. 

Then,  "Whither  away,  sweet  wind?"  said  I; 

"And  why  is  thy  song  so  gay? 
And  why  do  thy  waving  pinions  fl} 

So  busily  all  the  day?" 

tcLikc  a  child  asleep,"  the  zephyr  said, 
"I  have  lain  the  whole  long  night, 

With,  the  moonbeams  spread  above  my  bed, 
For  a  covering,  pure  and  white. 


THE    WIND. 


153 


uBut  just  as  the  sun  from  out  of  the  sea 

Had  lifted  his  princely  head, 
The  morn,  like  a  mother,  lifted  me 

From  out  of  my  snowy  bed. 

u  Then,  up,  like  a  singing  bird,  I  flew, 

O'er  meadow  and  grassy  hills ; 
I  sprinkled  the  clover-heads  with  dew, 

Exhaled  from  a  thousand  rills. 

"I  gathered  the  lithe,  gold,  willow  limbs, 

That  hung  so  meekly  down, 
And  drew  them  over  the  laughing  streams 

In  a  beautiful,  glossy  crown. 

"  I  swept  the  boughs  of  the  beech  aside, 

To  look  at  the  nestling  birds; 
The  broken  flower  at  the  fountain's  side, 

I  cheered  with  my  loving  words. 

"I  fluttered  around  with 'the  laughing  hours, 

O'er  forest  and  creeping  vine; 
1  gleefully  kissed  the  bending  flowers, 

Till  their  lips  were  as  red  as  wine0 


154  THE    WIND. 

uAnd  thus  I  fly,  o'er  the  rustling  grass, 
And  the  wheat,  on  smiling  farms, 

Till  the  old  nurse,  Night,  comes  down  at  last, 
And  cradles  me  in  her  arms." 

Then,  "Whither  away?"  said  the  wind  to  me, 
"And  where  hast  thou  been  to-day? 

And  why  is  thy  face  so  sad  to  see, 
When  every  thing  else  is  gay?" 

"Alas!  sweet  wind,"  I  sighed  to  say, 
While  the  tears  in  my  eyelids  grew, 

"I  have  not  borne  to  a  soul,  to-day, 
A  draught  of  the  heart's  cool  dew. 

"I  have  not  searched  for  the  broken  flowers, 

That  wither  along  my  way; 
Nor  noted  the  flight  of  the  priceless  hours, 

Nor  bent  my  knee  to  pray. 

"But,  oh!  however  my  soul  hath  sinned, 

Thy  lesson  of  love  I'll  keep; 
Then,  pass  thou  on,  sweet,  wandering  wind, 

And  leave  me  alone  to  weep." 


PARTING. 

Oh !  sing  to  me  some  little  song, 

Some  tender  and  melodious  air, 
That  through  my  brain  shall  glide  along, 
And  start  low  echoes  there. 
Care,  like  Euroclydon, 
Has  chilled  me  through  with  driving  sleet. 
Oh !  let  thy  voice,  subdued  and  sweet, 
Like  summer-waves,  on  loitering  feet, 
Against  my  throbbing  temples  beat, 
Till  all  the  pain  is  gone. 

Forgetful  of  all  dire  mishap, 

Beneath  the  kindness  of  thy  face, 
I  lay  my  head  upon  thy  lap, 
And  claim  thy  last  embrace. 
While  thou  art  o'er 'me  bowed, 
I  watch  thy  gentle  loves  arise, 
And  float  and  quiver  in  thine  eyes, 
Like  the  warm  morning's  shifting  dyes, 


156  PARTING. 

When  light  first  trembles  in  the  skies, 
And  smiles  upon  the  cloud. 


We  part;  and  it  may  be  for  aye; 

None  know  the  number  of  their  years  ; 
Ah!  at  that  thought,  thine  eyes' soft  day 
Is  lost  in  twilight  tears. 
Nay !  be  not  grieving  thus ; 
I  did  not  mean  for  aye,  sweet  love, 
Only  as  life's  swift  shuttles  move, 
Like  silken  threads  apart  we  shove; 
But,  surely,  He  who  leans  above, 
Most  kindly  watches  us. 


And,  when  our  parted  lives  are  done, 

What  heavenly  rapture  it  will  be 
To  know  them  woven  into  one 

By  careful  Deity. 

Call  back  thy  vanished  smile. 
Let  us,  with  sacred,  reverent  trust, 
Sure  that  the  ways  of  God  are  just, 
And  our  bright  love-links  can  not  rust, 
Be  severed,  darling,  if  we  must; 

'T  is  but  a  little  while. 


PARTING.  157 

Then  sing  to  me  some  gentle  song, 

And  round  my  neck  thy  white  arms  wind, 
While  tender  thoughts  —  a  holy  throng  — 
Float  over  thy  pure  mind, 
And  flower  within  thine  eyes, 
As  lilies  in  smooth  waters  grow; 
And,  lovingly  entwined  so, 
It  may  be  we  shall  feel  the  glow 
Of  angel  loves,  and  sweetly  know 
The  strength  of  angel  ties. 


THE  PRICE  OF  BLOOD. 

That  diamond-flashing  scepter, 
That  regal  robe  of  state, 

Those  halls  of  princely  grandeur, 
The  dwellings  of  the  great ; 

That  crown,  with  jewels  studded, 
That  shield  of  rare  device ; 

Ah !  who  would  wish  to  own  them, 
Who  counts  their  fearful  price? 

Their  price!  within  the  nations, 
Where  thrones  majestic  stand, 

The  blood  of  murdered  millions 
Cries  out  from  all  the  land. 

And  fearful  wails  at  morning, 
And  prayers  for  death  at  night, 


THE    PRICE    OF  BLOOD.  159 

Go  up  amid  their  scorning, 
Who  reckon  life  so  light. 


Groans  bitterly  outbreaking, 
Woes  that  may  not  be  told — 

What  are  they  to  the  rulers 
Who  barter  blood  for  gold? 

The  widow  and  the  orphan 
May  starve  for  lack  of  bread, 

If  but  the  lips  of  princes 
With  daintiest  food  are  fed. 

Ho  !  ye  of  prophet  vision, 

Who  watch  for  coming  things, 

Is  there  no  bolt  of  vengeance 
To  strike  these  sordid  kings? 

See  how  their  fierce  oppression 
Is  weighing  down  mankind! 

See  how  the  floods  of  anguish 
Roll  o'er  the  human  mind ! 


Is  there  no  angel  standing 
On  t.'.ie  eternal  shore, 


160  THE    PRICE    OF  BLOOD. 

Swearing,  by  earth  and  heaven, 
That  this  shall  be  no  more? 

Ah!  'mid  this  tempest  tumult, 
My  spirit,  be  thou  calm! 

There  falls  an  answering  whisper, 
"Our  God  hath  said,  CI  AM.'" 


THE  WILLOW  TREE. 

The  willow  tree  is  a  graceful  thing ; 
Its  boughs  are  light  as  a  wild  bird's  wing. 
Daintily,  airily,  to  and  fro, 
Over  the  gliding  waves  they  go, 
Lowly  laughing  and  whispering  — 
Oh !  the  willow  tree  is  a  graceful  thing. 

A  fairy  thing  is  the  willow  tree, 
Tossing  its  slender  arms  in  glee 
Over  the  violets,  white  as  snow, 
Hiding  their  cheeks  in  the  grasses  low ; 
Swinging,  waltzing,  merry  and  free, 
Oh !  a  fairy  thing  is  the  willow  tree. 

The  willow  tree  is  a  thing  of  gloom  — 
Under  it  lies  a  darkened  room ; 
And  ever  its  boughs  go  to  and  fro, 
Dropping  tears  on  the  mound  below. 
Room  and  mound  are  Beauty's  tomb, 
0 !  the  willow  tree  is  a  thing  of  gloom. 


162  THE  WILLOW  TREE. 

The  willow  tree  is  a  musical  thing  - 

A  harp  with  many  a  sweet-toned  string  ; 

And,  while  the  breezes  over  it  play, 

This  is  its  sweet,  consoling  lay : 

"Thy  dead  in  the  courts  of  heaven  sing." 

Oh !  the  willow  tree  is  a  musical  thing. 


NATURE'S  FEAST. 

O'er  all  the  smiling  land, 

Sunlight  is  lying ; 
Sweetly,  from  strand  to  strand, 

Breezes  are  flying. 

Down  by  the  fettered  feet 

Of  the  young  grain, 
Soundeth  the  music-beat 

Of  the  glad  rain. 

Over  the  meadows  sweet, 
Streamlets  are  going ; 

Shining  moons  make  the  wheat 
Ripe  for  the  mowing. 

Earth  is  man's  dwelling.    Here 

By  the  feast  spread, 
Nature,  God's  almoner, 

Breaketh  him  bread. 


164  NATURES   FEAST. 

Saying,  u  Come  bond  and  free, 

Hungry  and  cold, 
That  which  God  giveth  me 

I '11  not  withhold." 

To  her,  from  every  place. 
Come  great  and  small; 

And  she,  with  smiling  face, 
Feedeth  them  all. 

Let  man  reach  forth  and  take 
That  which  she  giveth ; 

It  shall  all  labor  make 
Sweet,  while  he  liveth. 

All  the  good  laws  of  God 

Glad  to  obey, 
Until  heaven  from  the  sod 

Calls  him  away. 


OUR  PLAYMATE'S  GRAVE. 

Beneath  the  cedar  tree 

That  swingeth  to  and  fro 
With  every  touch  the  wild  winds  give, 

As  o'er  the  hills  they  go, 

There  lies  an  humble  grave, 

Uncared  for  and  alone  ; 
No  flowers  are  planted  on  the  sod, 
And  at  the  head  no  stone. 

The  hill  on  which  it  lies 

Slopes  downward,  steep  and  low, 
And  endeth  in  a  tangled  dell, 

Where  sunshine  can  not  go. 

All  day,  a  little  sound, 

From  out  the  vale  beneath, 
Comes  stealing  up  the  shadowy  ground, 

To  that  abode  of  death. 


OUR  PLAYMATE'S  GRAVE. 

A  sound  of  moving  trees, 

Of  bubbling  water-springs, 
Comes,  mingled  with  the  hurried  beat 

Of  restless,  quivering  wings. 

Long  years  ago,  they  laid 

Our  playmate  to  his  rest, 
And  planted  there  the  cedar  tree, 

That  swingeth  o'er  his  breast. 

A  wooden  slab  beneath, 

Unlettered,  brown,  and  bare ; 

And  for  the  rest  the  sunshine  brings 
The  sweet  spring-beauties  there. 

And,  if  the  rain-drop  creep 

Into  his  curtained  bed, 
it  matters  not, —  all  things  should  weep, 

When  such  a  boy  is  dead. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SOUL. 

There  is  a  music,  soft  and  low, 
That  dwelleth  in  the  soul, 

And  ever  there  in  secresy, 
Its  untaught  numbers  roll 

It  hath  no  words;  but,  oh,  it  bears 

The  raptured  soul  along, 
As  though  the  atmosphere  around 

Were  tremulous  with  song. 

It  hath  a  wilder,  sweeter  sound, 
Than  all  earth's  melodies, 

As  it  were  wafted  to  the  heart, 
Adown  the  solemn  skies. 

0 
And,  like  a  far  off  anthem  swell, 

It  chimeth  ever  there ; 
And  on  its  unseen  wing  it  bears 

The  burden  of  a  prayer. 


168        THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SOUL. 

All  through  the  long  and  weary  day 
Its  dreamy  murmurs  flow, 

Chanting  afar,  within  the  soul, 
A  requiem  sad  and  low. 

The  eye  may  flash  with  angry  light; 

The  lip  wear  falsehood's  smile ; 
Yet  the  sad  music  of  the  soul 

Swells  softly  all  the  while. 

Forever  sweeping  through  the  breast 
These  holy  breathings  are, 

Like  the  low  surging  melodies 
That  roll  from  star  to  star. 

When  night,  devout  and  dewy  eyed, 
Calls  the  lone  soul  to  prayer, 

All  earthly  numbers  melt  away, 
Like  discord  on  the  air. 


And  in  its  dim  cathedral  sits 

The  dark  and  troubled  soul, 
And  wondering,  hears  through  nave  and  aisle, 

Its  own  wild  music  roll. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SOUL.         169 

Oh!  very  dear,  to  earth-worn  hearts, 
Are  these  sweet,  heaven-born  lays! 
They  quicken  every  wearied  pulse, 

And  rouse  to  love  and  praise. 
8 


THE  CHRISTENING. 

The  moonlight  trembled  in  the  silvery  air; 
The  wind  sang  in  the  woodbine  by  the  door; 
And  the  young  mother,  swaying  in  her  chair, 
Her  tender  lullaby  crooned  o'er  and  o'er. 

"Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep! 

Evening  shadows  are  deep. 
Close  in  my  arms  I  fold  you, 

Softly  praying,  with  tears, 
That  the  Father  of  all  may  hold  you  ;— 

Through  all  life's  shadowy  years, 

Lovingly  fold  and  keep, 

Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep! 

"Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep! 

None  but  a  mother  would  weep 
O'er  a  babe  as  yet  unchristened ; — 
O'er  a  bud  as  yet  unblown ; 


THE    CHRISTENING. 


Ere  baptism-rains  have  glistened, 

In  pearl-showers  over  it  thrown  ; 
For  the  worm  in  the  heart  I  weep:  — 
Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep  !  " 


The  moonlight  darkened  in  the  draperied  night, 
The  wind  sobbed  through  the  woodbine  with 

a  sigh, 

And  by  a  marble  face,  all  still  and  white, 
The  mother  wailed  her  tremulous  lullaby. 

" Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep! 

The  shadows  of  death  are  deep. 
Out  of  my  arms  they  take  you, 

Gird  you  in  linens  clean, 
And  never  disturb  or  awake  you. 

What  can  this  slumber  mean? 

Terrors  over  me  creep, 

Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep ! 

" Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep! 

Angels  your  christening  keep ; 
And  the  worm  can  never  harm  you, 
That  lies  in  the  budding  heart. 


172  THS   CHRISTENING. 

But  what  to  my  arms  can  charm  you, 
When  death  has  drawn  us  apart? 
They  have  opened  the  grave  so  steep ; 
Sleep,  my  beautiful,  sleep!" 


OH!    WOULD  I  WERE  ALONE. 

Oh !  would  I  were  alone ! 
For  a  dancing  wind  hath  blown, 
Throughout  the  shadowy  forest  of  my  soul ; 
And  all  its  dreams,  like  trees, 
Awake  to  melodies, 

That  lightly,  lightly  roll. 
Oh!  would wewere alone! 
I,  and  my  happy  soul. 

Soft  summer  light  hath  shone, 
Like  a  sweet  benison, 

Where  chilling,  wintry  shadows  long  have  lain ; 
I  weary  of  the  sound 
Of  the  gossiping  around; 

The  laughter  quick  and  vain. 
Oh!  would  we  were  alone  — 
I,  and  my  luminous  brain ! 

A  new  delight  hath  grown, 
Like  a  white  flower  blown, 


174  OH!  WOULD   I   WERE   ALONE. 

When  the  lessening  snow-hills  shrink  apart, 
Within  the  sacred  clime, 
Where  I  keep  tryst  with  Time, 

Yet  mock  his  feeble  art. 
Oh !  would  we  were  alone  — 
I,  and  my  charmed  heart! 

Oh !  the  dancing  wind  hath  blown, 
And  summer  light  hath  shone, 
Through  my  soul's  forest,  shadowy  and  deep, 
And  such  a  fairy  throng 
Awaits  me,  that  I  long 

My  sacred  tryst  to  keep. 
Oh!  would  I  were  alone  — 
To  muse  and  smile  and  weep. 


PRAYER  AND  PRAISE. 

When,  in  the  heart,  the  tide  of  woe 

Is  swelling  every  hour; 
When  heavy  eye  and  pallid  brow 

Reveal  its  fearful  power; 

When  lips  are  mute,  because  the  brain 
Can  frame,  of  speech,  no  form ; 

When  outward  calmness  only  shows 
How  wild  the  inward  storm ; 

Then,  even  as  the  tortured  wave 

Wails  forth  its  deep  despair, 
So  the  wrung  heart  sends  up  the  voice 

Of  earnest,  pleading  prayer. 

When  peace  within  the  happy  breast 

Doth  like  a  river  flow, 
And  gladly,  through  the  heart  and  vein, 

Health's  gentle  currents  go; 


1T6  PRAYER   AND    PRAISE. 

When  dreams,  like  birds,  float  lightly  through 

The  brain,  on  golden  wing, 
And  tarry  just  enough  to  breathe 

The  strange,  sweet  songs  they  sing. 

Then,  even  as  the  gushing  stream 

Doth  chant  its  joyous  lays, 
So  swells  from  out  the  raptured  heart, 

Its  glad,  spontaneous  praise. 

Sweet  prayer!  the  child  of  faith  and  love, 

Whose  holy  accents  rise, 
In  lowest  music  tones,  yet  find 

Their  echo  in  the  skies; 

And  praise — outgushing  of  a  heart, 

That  God  hath  greatly  blessed, 
The  pean  of  delight  that  swells, 

In  triumph  from  the  breast; 

Ye  both,  with  holy  influences, 

Gird  the  repentant  soul, 
That  it  may  run  the  heavenward  race, 

And  reach  the  sun-crowned  goal. 


THE  DYING  TEACHER.* 

Smitten,  with  sore  disease, 
He  lies  —  a  student,  who  has  climbed  so  high 
Earth's  stony  uhill  of  science"  that  his  eye 

No  higher  station  sees ; 

But  peers  into  the  night 

That  girds  the  mountain  on  the  skyward  side, 
Expecting,  when  its  raven  clouds  divide, 

To  view  some  fairer  hight. 

Life,  like  a  book  well  worn, 
And  diligently  conned  in  youth  and  age; 
Death,  the  stern  master,  opens  at  a  page, 

The  last,  defaced  and  torn. 


*The  last  words  of  an  aged  schoolmaster  were,  "It  is  p  osin< 
dark  ;  school  may  be  dismissed." 


178  THE   DYING   TEACHER. 

Slowly  the  pale  lips  stir, 
(Once   crimson  altars  where  thought-offerings 

burned,) 
As  if  the  lessons  were  but  slightly  learned, 

And  so  forgotten  were. 

His  words  are  strange  and  few; 
Yet  even  in  this  hour  of  mortal  pain, 
Memory,  the  slumberer,  wakes,  and  turns  a^ain 

The  pages,  for  review. 

Ah!  first  the  pictured  book, 
Did  his  sweet  mother  open  to  his  sight; 
And,  at  his  eager  boyhood's  rapt  delight, 

Smiling,  she  bade  him  look. 

Gently,  as  unfledged  dove, 
He  nestled  in  her  arms,  the  while  she  read; 
With  weak,  uncertain  lips  his  lesson  said, 

His  mother-lore  of  love. 

The  winged  years  went  and  came 
All  radiantly.     He  hardly  felt  their  flight, 
For  that  dear  smile,  which  made,  with  rainbow 
light, 

Life's  bubbles  all  aflame. 


THE  DYING  TEACHER.  179 

Till,  in  youth's  sunny  prime, 
Another  hand  turned  o'er  the  glowing  leaves, 
And  taught  his  soul  the  tales  that  fancy  weaves, 

In  music-gliding  rhyme. 

As  silvery- vested  dawn 
Lightly  precedes  the  vital,  vigorous  day, 
When  fancy's  gilded  shallop  cut  the  way, 

Love  in  its  wake  was  drawn. 


'Twas  but  the  common  lot; 
He  loved,  and  suffered ;  so  he  learned  that  life 
Is  like  a  book  with  mournful  chapters  rife, 

And  soiled  with  many  a  blot. 

And  thus,  impatient  grown 
To  master  all  life's  mysteries  at  a  bound, 
With  passionate  hand  he  swept  the  leaves,  and 
found 

Dread  language,  and  unknown. 

Ah  !  sadly  then  he  learned 
That  time  unravels  but  the  present  page, 
And  toil  must  every  mystic  line  engage, 

Or  ero  a  leaf  be  turned. 


180 


THE  DYING  TEACHER. 


And,  finding  grief  in  store, 
And  bitter  truths  with  sad  precision  taught, 
Forsook  wild  dreams;    and,  -on  the  waves  oi 
thought, 

His  sinking  soul  upbore. 

Where  mystery's  ocean  sweeps, 
He  sought  creation's  rare  and  hidden  things; 
Soul-gems  that  make  men  wealthier  than  kings, 

He  gathered  from  her  deeps. 

And,  then,  with  kingly  grace, 
(For  most  a  king  is  honored  if  he  stoop,) 
He  took  the  golden  chain  of  knowledge  up, 

And  bound  him  to  his  race. 

A  teacher — scorning  not 
Along  with  little  souls  to  tread  once  more 
The  simple,  tiresome  paths  of  infant  lore, 

Nor  murmured  at  his  lot. 

Oh,  meek,  unselfish  heart! 
To  see  fame's  regal  mountain  towers  alight, 
With    pathway   thitherward   all    smooth    and 
bright, 

And  act  such  humble  part. 


THE  DYING  TEACHER  181 

Prone  on  his  couch  he  lies, 
Life's  twilight  shadows  gather  o'er  his  brow, 
And  the  warm,  loving  light  is  fading  now, 

From  out  his  half-closed  eyes. 

The  night  is  chill  and  whist  — 
The  long,  drear  night  that  reigns  among  the  dead. 
u'Tis  growing  dark,"  the  gentle  spirit  said, 

"And  school  may  be  dismissed." 

We  can  not  see  the  book 
Whose  golden  letters  satisfy  the  soul; 
But  we,  when  earth  is  shriveled  like  a  scroll, 

Shall  on  its  pages  look; 

> 

And  there  all  wisdom  learn, 
All  love,  all  beauty,  all  divinity. 
Oh,  happy  teacher!  to^be  taught  like  thee, 

What  spirit  would  not  yearn ! 


SONG. 

I  love  every  thing  beautiful, 
Every  thing  pure  and  true ; 

The  wild  flower's  purple  corolla, 
Vailed  with  a  'broidering  dew. 

The  gleam  of  a  curling  wavelet, 

The  shape  of  a  curious  leaf, 
That  broadens  out  of  its  petiole, 

Charmeth  away  my  grief. 

% 

I  love  every  thing  musical  — 
Murmur  of  zephyr  and  wave, 

Voices  of  nature  solemn 
As  dirges  over  a  grave. 

The  sweep  of  a  forest  pinion, 
The  rustle  of  woodland  limb, 

Steal  over  the  troubled  spirit, 

Like  the  gush  of  a  prayerful  hymn. 


SONG.  183 

But,  oh  !  the  fullness  of  beauty 
Lies  couched  in  a  soullit  eye, 

When  I  see,  'neath  the  lifted  lashes, 
A  love  that  can  not  die. 

And  of  all  things  full  of  music, 
Nought  maketh  my  heart  rejoice, 

Or  waketh  an  answering  echo, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  loving  voice. 


THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE 
HEART. 

With  my  hands  endowed  with  pansies, 
Plucked  in  dreamy,  pleasant  mood, 

Blossoming  into  flowery  fancies, 
Near  the  garden  bower  I  stood. 

Then  I  heard  a  little  singing, 

From  within,  arise  and  fly, 
Through  the  leaves  its  slow  way  winging, 

Half  a  song,  and  half  a  sigh. 

u  Through  my  heart's  lone  garden  stealing, 
Filled  with  memories  of  the  past, 

Mourned  I  for  the  flowers  of  feeling, 
Withered  at  life's  wintry  blast. 

"  Once,  the  sweet  wild  roses  bowered, 
This  fair  dwelling  of  my  heart; 

And  the  lowly  violet  flowered, 
Guiltless  of  deceiving  art. 


THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  HEAHT.   185 

"And  the  rosy  almond-blossoms, 

With  a  smile  of  hope  for  me, 
Hung  with  warm  and  throbbing  bosoms, 

O'er  the  rapt  anemone. 

« 

"Long  ago  they  grew  and  withered, 

And  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 
As  if  grief  her  dews  had  gathered 

Out  of  all  those  pleasant  years. 

"  Bars  of  light  the  green  leaves  silvered, 

Glorying  all  my  fairy  bowers ; 
But  the  days,  deceitful, 'pilfered, 

One  by  one,  my  precious  flowers. 

"Wandering  up  in  careless  vagrance, 
To  my  gleeful  childhood's  close ; 

Then  my  soul  was  filled  with  fragrance, 
By  the  beautiful  white  rose. 

"Soon  it  faded  ;  brown  and  dusky 
Fell  its  shriveled  leaves  apart ; 

And  the  tempest  voice  was  husky 
O'er  this  garden  of  iny  heart. 


186  THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  HEART. 

"  Crimson  rosebuds,  just  out-starting, 

To  an  ashen  pallor  grew  ; 
And  Adonis'  blooms  were  parting, 

Near  the  sad  disdainful  rue. 


"  Crowned  with  mocking  thistle-flowers, 

Underneath  the  Judas  tree, 
Sighing  for  the  summer  bowers, 

That  would  bloom  no  more  for  me. 

"Thus,  through  my  heart's  garden  stealing, 
Filled  with  memories  of  the  past, 

Grieved  I  for  the  flowers  of  feeling, 
Withered  at  life's  wintry  blast. 

\ 

"But  there  rose  a  blossom  starry, 

And  its  mystic  language  said, 
1  Wherefore  by  the  snowdrift  tarry  ? 

Rise  !  to  Bethlehem  be  led.' 

"From  my  blissful  Eden  driven, 

Praying  for  a  swift  release, 
Came  a  snowy  dove  from  heaven, 

With  the  olive  branch  of  peace. 


THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  HEART.   187 

"  Round  my  forehead  angel  fingers 
Bound  the  wreath  with  nimble  art, 

And  a  holy  presence  lingers 
Evermore  within  my  heart." 


With  my  hands  endowed  with  pansies, 
Down  the  garden  path  I  walked, 

Blossoming  into  flowery  fancies, 
Thus  unto  my  soul  I  talked: 

"  When  a  little  bud  is  blowing, 
All  too  early  in  the  spring, 

Wild  winds  hinder  it  from  growing, 
Chilling  mists  around  it  cling. 

"  And  the  plant  that  feels  the  rigor 
Of  the  spring-time  frost  and  gloom, 

Is  not  warmed  with  half  the  vigor 
Of  the  crimson  summer  bloom. 

"  Now  I  think  this  human  flower 
Was  but  chilled  a  little  while ; 

That  in  August  sun  and  shower 
It  might  all  the  brighter  smile. 


188  THE  FLOWER  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  HEART. 

l'So,  if  in  the  soul  a  sadness 
Seems  to  chill  the  springs  of  life, 

Let  us  wait  with  patient  gladness, 
Bliss  is  heralded  by  strife." 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  HEART. 

Fly,  fly, 
Beautiful  bird  into  the  skyf 

While  your  carols,  like  jewels  fine, 
Drop  and  dissolve  in  the  air's  pure  wine, 
That  sparkles  and  swims  in  the  light  divine, 
Of  the  sun-god's  beatific  eye, 

Fly,  fly! 
Mate  with  the  clouds  that  are  hurrying  by. 

Lave,  lave 

Your  azure  wings  in  its  slow,  warm  wave! 
And  fill  your  trachea,  gleeful  one, 
Till  the  delicate  pipe  shall  overrun, 
And  you  end  the  song  your  flight  begun, 
With  a  higher,  clearer,  merrier  stave, 

Lave,  lave, 
In  the  blissful  flow  of  the  ambient  wave. 

Sink,  sink! 
The  rubric  light  has  paled  to  pink, 


190  THE   BIRD   AND   THE    HEART. 

And  amber  and  lavender,  white  and  gold, 
Bewilder  the  sea,  and  trouble  the  mold; 
For  the  garlanded  day  is  growing  old, 
And  totters  along  to  the  sunset  brink. 

Sink,  sink! 

Till   the  shade  of  the  cold,   still   night  shall 
shrink. 

Heart,  heart, 

Up  to  the  higher  glories  dart ! 
Heaven's  most  holy  beams  are  thine; — 
Burst  into  song  in  the  light  divine; — 
Drink  deep  draughts  of  the  soul's  rare  wine, 
Then  sink  till  death's  terrorful  night,  shall  depart. 

Heart,  heart! 
Trustfully  sleep  till  the  night  shall  depart. 


AN  INVALID'S  DREAM. 

Tears  from  kind  eyes  over  me  falling, 

Tender  arms  enclosing  me  round; 
And  a  troubled  voice,  in  words  appalling, 
Smiting  my  ear  with  swords  of  sound: — 
u Never,  never  to  be  well!  " 
Never  more  to  feel  the  swell, 
Of  healthy  girlhood's  bounding  wave, 
All  my  sentient  being  lave, 
Till  I  drop  into  my  grave. 

14  Alas!  for  the  beautiful  things  denied  me! 

Joy  in  the  light,  and  rest  in  the  shade, 
Love  to  linger  entranced  beside  me; 
Weakness,  to  cling  to  my  arm  for  aid." 
Thus  I  cried  within  my  soul ; 
Then,  I  felt  above  me  roll 
Clouds  of  rest;  and,  for  a  term, 
Slumbers  shrouding  folds  were  firm, 
As  the  cocoon  round  the  worm. 


192 


AN  INVALID'S  DREAM. 


Was  it  a  dream?  or  was  I  but  daunted, 

With  semblance  of  what  was  bitterly  true  ? 
In  the  swift  seas  my  feet  were  planted, 
And  the  wild  waters  around  me  grew. 
Puny  sport  of  wind  and  sea, 
Did  I  seem  that  hour  to  be ; — 
Of  the  rolling  surge  afraid, 
Lifted  I  my  voice,  and  prayed, 
With  a  sob,  for  instant  aid. 

Then,  a  black  storm-cloud  over  me  parted, 

To  roll  in  a  whitening  scroll  afar; 
And  a  voice,  all  melody,  cried,  "  Faint-hearted; 
See  where  the  steadfast  islands  are!  " 
Much  I  wondered,  and  behold! 
In  a  flood  of  shimmering  gold, 
Lay  a  bright  land  near  to  me, 
Crowned  with  all  things  fair  to  see, 
Girt  with  shining  marquetry. 

Down,  amid  bursting  light  was  tendered, 
A'  hand,  milk-white,  and  slender  and  fair ; 

Then  was  my  languishing  spirit  rendered 
Strong  to  resist,  and  brave  to  dare. 
Joyously  the  tide  I  pressed, 


AN  INVALID'S  DREAM.  193 

Eager  for  the  promised  rest, 
Guided  by  the  loving  hand, 
Till  a-near  the  blissful  strand, 
Back  withheld  by  strange  command. 

"Wait!  little  child!  and  ponder  a  season! 

Lovely  as  this  fair  land  may  be, 
Is  there  not  yet  some  secret  reason, 

Why  you  should  buffet  the  angry  sea?" 
All  the  green  and  cumbrous  trees, 
Stood,  like  palaces  of  ease ; 
And  the  long  vines  o'er  them  wound, 
Reeling  to  the  fruitful  ground, 
With  a  pleasant,  summery  sound. 

All  the  bright  valleys  were  overladen, 
And  shining  with  flowers,  rose-tinted  and 

rare ; 

And  many  a  blooming  youth  and  maiden 
Wandered  together,  with  laughter,  there. 
Full  of  earnest,  doubtful  thought, 
Wiih  an  eye,  by  suffering  taught, 
Questioned  I  their  ways  to  see, 
If  untangled,  smooth  and  free, 
Every  blooming  course  might  be. 


194  AN    INVALID  S     DREAM. 

Then  I  shook  like  a  smitten  reed  to  view  it, 
With  exquisite  wonder  and  exquisite  fear ; 
Deadly  serpents  were  winding  through  it ; 
O'er  scarlet  blossoms  I  saw  them  veer. 
Where  the  heedless  legion  stepped, 
Many  a  filthy  quagmire  slept ; 
Clouds  that  seemed  but  "  as  a  hand,'7 
Gathering  wrathfully  and  grand, 
Smote  to  death  the  smiling  land. 

Poison,  in  every  good  was  lurking ; 

Thorns  were  hidden  on  every  spray ; 
And  the  ghostly  phantoms  of  night  were  work 
ing 

Up  through  the  long  bright  halls  of  day. 
Then  I  wept  awhile,  and  said, 
''Little  have  I  merited, 
Lord,  thy  sweet,  protecting  care ; 
Once  again  the  seas  I  dare, 

Only  love  and  keep  me  there. 

/ 

u Little  of  faith!   the  gathering  billow, 
No  more  thy  purified  soul  can  chafe ; 

I  lead  thee  under  the  drooping  willow, 
Grateful  the  shade,  and  cool  and  safe! " 


THE    INVALIDS    DREAM.  195 

Then  the  fair  hand  went  away; 
And  beneath  the  'tree  I  lay, 
Tearful,  pallid,  but  no  more, 
Frighted  at  the  hungry  roar 
Of  the  sea  beyond  the  shore. 

Then,  in  my  soul,  there  grew  a  wonder; 
For  the  sweet  land  that  cherished  me, 
From  the  broad  aisle  was  rent  asunder, 
And  drifted  away  across  the  sea. 
All  the  wave  hills  grew  with  speed, 
Level  as  a  summer  mead ; 
And  the  swinging  branches  flew, 
With  articulation  new, 
Saying,  "Heaven  is  just  in  view." 

Faces  unearthly  over  me  gleaming; — 

Harpings,  most  heavenly  charming  my  ear; 
Panting  and  blissful  I  woke  from  dreaming, 
Just  as  the  symphonies  clustered  near. 
"Never — never  to  be  well!  " 
Where  the  wild  seas  beat  and  swell, 
Swayed  about,  yet  now  I  see, 
To  the  singing  willow  tree, 
My  Physician  leadeth  me. 


THE  THREE  BIRDLINGS.* 

A    STORY    FOR   LITTLE    ONES. 

Come  Nellie,  and  Mina,  and  Mary, 
Sweet  sisters  of  mine,  come  near; 

For  I  have  a  beautiful  story 
To  tell,  as  you  ever  did  hear. 

A  story  of  three  little  birdlings, 
All  born  in  the  beauteous  May ; 

So  what  will  you  give  me,  my  darlings, 
To  sing  you  my  story  to-day? 

UA  hundred  and  fifty  sweet  kisses?" 
That  can  not  be  worth  your  while, 


*I  have,  in  this  article,  been  guilty  of  misrepresenting  the  habits  of 
some  of  the  feathered  tribes,  inasmuch  ag  the  brown  thrush  builds 
his  nest  on  the  ground,  and  the  chick-a-dee,  and  blue-bird,  have  a 
most  unpoetical  attachment  to  stumps  and  "stubs ;"  but  I  think,  for 
the  purposes  of  versification,  the  liberty  may  be  excused. 


THE  THREE  BIRDLINGS.  197 

For  I  shall  be  paid  for  my  trouble, 
If  you  give  me  but  one  sweet  smile. 

But  stand  at  my  side  while  I  draw  you 

A  bucket  up,  out  of  my  well ; 
The  well  of  my  love  for  you,  sisters= 

Much  deeper  than  story  can  tell. 

There  were  three  little  nests  in  the  woodland, 

Built  carefully  up  out  of  reach ; 
One  swung  in  a  small  witchhazel, 

And  two  in  a  lofty  beech. 

If  you  had  climbed  to  them  in  April, 
In  each  of  them,  you  might  have  seen 

Little  eggs,  either  prettily  spotted, 
Or  tinted  with  delicate  green. 

Well,  when  the  bright  May  was  a-laughing, 
And  shaking  her  curls  in  the  sun ; 

Of  featherless,  tiniest  birdlings, 

In  each  of  the  nests,  there  was  one ; 

For  whether  the  rain  had  rained  on  them, 
Or  some  wicked  boy  had  been  there, 


THE    THREE    BIRDLINGS. 

Or  whether  some  owlet  had  killed  them, 
I  can  not  this  moment  declare; 

But,  certain  it  is,  there  was  only 
A  bird,  at  the  last,  in  each  nest, 

That  stretched  up  its  neck  for  the  feeding, 
And  slept  'neath  the  motherly  breast. 

Now,  when  the  June  came,  with  a  mantle 
Of  gold,  all  embroidered  with  green, 

The  birdlings,  grown  feathered  and  larger, 
Began  to  look  out  on  the  scene. 

And  waving  their  light,  downy  pinions, 
And  hopping  from  this  bough  to  that, 

They  happened  to  meet  altogether, 
And  stopped  for  a  neighborly  chat. 

Says  one,  "I  make  bold  to  acquaint  you, 
'T  is  little  Miss  Blue-bird  you  see." 

Says  another,  "Your  servant,  Miss  Blue-bird, 
And  I  am  Miss  Chick-a-dee-dee. 

"But  step  just  a  little  one  side,  dear, 
The  better  our  voices  to  hush ;  — 


THE    THREE    BIRDLINGS.  199 

I  am  told  that  this  brownie,  beside  us, 
Is  nobody  —  only  Miss  Thrush. 

"Now,  if  this  should  be  true,  dear  Miss  Blue 
bird, 

'Tis  best  we  should  'cut'  her  you  know; 
For  cthey  say'  that  the  'family- tree,'  love, 

Is  very  decidedly  'low;' 

And  besides,  without  any  more  bother, 

Her  'quality,'  truly  to  guess — 
She  is  certainly  lacking  in  style,  love  — 

Just  look  at  the  cut  of  her  dress!" 

"Indeed!  "  said  the  dainty  Miss  Blue-bird, 
As  her  delicate  wings  she  unfurled, 

uLet  us  hurry  away,  for  I  wouldn't 
Be  seen  by  her  side,  for  the  world. 

"For,  when  I  'come  out,'  I  shall  glisten 

In  colors  so  pretty  and  rich, 
That  I'  m  certain  to  capture  the  red-breast, 

Or  blue-jay,  I  can  not  tell  which. 

"And,  if  I  should  own  her  acquaintance, 
That  scornful  Miss  Black-bird  would  fly, 


200  THE   THREE   BIRDLINGS. 

And  sound  it  all  over  creation, 
To  every  bird  in  the  sky." 

Now,  little  Miss  Thrush,  the  poor  "  brownie," 
Had  heard  every  word  that  they  said ; 

While  the  thought  of  her  lowly  condition 
Crept  into  her  wondering  head. 

And  the  dress  that  she  wore  looked  so  shabby, 
(Though  't  was  really  tidy  and  plain, 

Just  such  a  dark  tint  as  a  lady 

Would  choose  to  wear  out  in  the  rain,) 

That  while,  to  their  nests  in  the  beech  tree, 

She  saw  the  pert  misses  depart, 
Away,  to  her  humble  witch-hazel, 

She  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart. 

Saying,  "Now,  I  will  stay  here  forever, 
Out  of  sight  of  the  chick-a-dee-dee ; 

And  never  a  red-breast,  or  blue-jay, 
Shall  perch  in  my     family- tree." 

Now  gone  was  the  sweet  lady-summer; 
And  gone  was  the  winter  so  wild ; 


THE   THREE    BIRDLINGS.  201 

And  April  came  back  to  the  woodland, 
As  bright  as  a  beautiful  child. 

And  shining  in  delicate  azure, 

Miss  Blue-bird  ucame  out1'  as  she  said, 
And  Miss  Chick-a-dee-dee  looked  about  her, 

And  thought  it  was  high  time  to  wed. 

So  she  sang  out,  "My  charming  Miss  Blue-bird, 
Since  you  are  so  bright  and  so  gay, 

And  withal,  so  'accomplished'  and  stylish, 
You're  certain  to  capture  the  jay. 

"  But,  I  hear  that  the  red-breast  is  partial 
To  something  less  gaudy  and  smart ; 

So  I  Ve  put  on  my  quakerish  mantle, 
And  mean  he  shall  sue  for  my  heart." 

Now,  the  thrush  in  her  lowly  witchhazel, 
(Grown  older  and  wiser,  you  see,) 

When  she  heard  this  absurd  calculation, 
Could  not  forbear  laughing  with  glee. 

Her  laughing  gushed  out  in  such  music, 
That  all  the  bright  birds  in  a  throng, 
9* 


202  THE    THREE    BIRDLINGS. 

Hurried  into  the  echoing  woodland, 
To  list  to  the  wonderful  song. 

For  never  in  concert  or  solo 

Was  any  thing  heard  so  complete, 

So  gleeful,  so  richly  delicious, 
So  mellow,  so  tenderly  sweet. 

"Oh!  who  can  it  be?"  cried  the  black-bird; 

And  "who  can  it  be  ?"  squalled  the  jay; 
Said  the  red-breast,  "Be  still  with  your  screech 
ing! 

You'll  frighten  the  lady  away." 

Each  crying  aloud  in  his  wonder, 

And  telling  the  others  to  hush. 
Lo !  out  of  the  humble  witchhazel 

Came  down  the  brown  wings  of  the  thrusL 

"Oh!  sweet,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you!  " 
Sang  out  the  glib  chick-a-dee-dee ; 

"My  charming  Miss  Thrush,"  said  the  blue-bird, 
"  Come  stay  with  us,  up  in  our  tree." 

"  Our  set  are  all  dying  to  know  you, 
Where  have  you  been  hidden  away? 


THE    THREE    BIRDLINGS.  203 

My  neighbor,  Miss  Thrush,  Mr.  Red-breast, 
A  friend  of  mine,  good  Mr.  Jay." 

But  gaily  she  laughed,  as  she  answered, 
"My  pretty  young  belles,  do  you  know 

That  my  l family-tree,'  the  witchhazel, 
'  Is  very  decidedly  low  ?  ' 

uSo  I  dare  not  fly  up  to  your  beech-tree, 
Though  obliged  to  you,  nevertheless, 

Do  n't  you  see  that  I  'm  l  lacking  in  style,'  dears ! 
Just  look  at  the  cut  of  my  dress !  " 

Then  back  to  her  lowly  witchhaze 

She  flew,  with  a  carol  of  glee, 
Singing,  "No,  I  will  never  forsake  you  — 

My  cherishing  'family-tree." 

Now,  Nellie,  and  Mina,  and  Mary, 

If  any  one  seem  to  look  down 
With  sneers,  on  your  name  and  your  station, 

Or  scoffs  at  the  cut  of  your  gown, 

Never  mind  it,  my  sweet  little  sisters, 
Or  rail  at  the  world  for  its  pride ; 


204  THE   THREE   BIRDLINGS. 

They  have  but  their  beauty,  or  riches, 
And  you  may  have  something  beside  : 

A  voice  that  is  gushing  with  music, 
A  heart  that  is  brimming  with  glee, 

A  mind  full  of  wisdom,  are  better 
Than  any  tall  "family -tree." 

And  if  the  bright  world  shall  be  startled, 
Some  day,  by  the  power  of  your  song, 

And  feed  you  with  honey-regard,  dears, 
Let  flattery  do  you  no  wrong. 

But  lift  up  your  light,  little  pinions, 
And  away  to  the  olden  delight ; 

For  the  loves  that  are  made  by  the  fashion, 
Are  the  loves  that  are  surest  in  flight. 


HAPPY  DAYS. 

Wiien  we  have  been  in  with  the  roses, 
And  pressed  their  cool  faces  to  ours, 

Long  after,  around  us  will  linger 
The  subtle,  faint  odor  of  flowers. 

Even  so,  when  life  leadeth  us  onward, 
O'er  dreary  and  desert-like  ways, 

Kind  memory,  like  a  sweet  perfume, 
Reealleth  our  flower-like  days. 

When  we  have  been  out  in  the  sunshine, 
And  dwelt  in  the  glow  of  its  light, 

The  warmth  of  its  presence  surrounds  us, 
Beneath  the  cold  wings  of  the  night. 

Glad  days  are  like  sunbeams  that  cheer  us; 

Like  sunbeams  they  also  depart; 
Yet,  passing,  they  kindly  bequeath  us 

The  warmth  of  their  light  in  the  heart. 


20  6  HAPPY   DAYS. 

The  way  of  the  world  may  be  stony, 
(Alas,  who  has  found  it  not  so !) 

Yet,  now  and  then,  Time,  leaning  o'er  us, 
Drops  pearls  in  our  path,  as  we  go. 

Then  let  us  thank  God,  as  we  travel, 
Heart-wearily,  on  to  our  rest, 

For  the  sunshine,  the  pearls,  and  the  roses 
That  make  our  dark  pilgrimage  blest. 


LIGHT. 

The  meek  morning  twilight,  so  paley  of  hue, 
Whose  face  was  so  pearl-white,  whose  brow 

was  so  grand, 
Sweeping  by  with  strong  influence,  after  her 

drew 
The  glad  waves  of  sunshine  all  over  the  land. 

Like  a  sea-surge,  yet  silent  withal,  o'er  the  pines 
And  the  mountains  they  rolled ;  the  green 

vallies  ran  o'er ; 
And  the  edges  of  all  things  wore  dainty  white 

lines, 

As  the  light  billows  foamed  on  each  glorified 
shore. 

There  came  such  a  murmur  from  hollow  and  dell, 
A  sound  with  all  silences  so  blended  in, 

So  slumberous-quiet,  you  scarcely  could  tell, 
Were  it  sunshine  or  breeze  that  was  making 
the  din. 


208  LIGHT. 

The  soft  air  swam  backward  and  forward  to  see 
Who  had  lain  such  a  sweet  weight  of  sound 

on  her  breast; 

Yet  went  she  all  softly,  lest  rosebush  and  tree, 
At  the  noise  of  her  swimming,  should  wake 
from  their  rest. 

The  tremulous  eddy  encircled  the  glade, 
And  touched  the  pale  lips  of  the  flowers  in 

the  wood ; 
Yet  moved  not  the  line  of  the  quaintly-marked 

shade, 

And  stirred  not  the  slenderest  stem  as  they 
stood. 

There   was   something   a-move,  all   along   the 

hushed  world ; 
It  rocked  the  low   grasses,   it  girdled   the 

boughs; 

It  breathed,  and  the  folded  young  leaflets  un 
curled, 

While  the  trees,  like  robed  bishopr,   were 
paying  their  vows. 

It  breathed — I  know  not  if  it  uttered  a  word ; 
(It  must  be,  the  leaf-buds  have  daintier  ears,) 


LIGHT. 


209 


But  all  living  things  with  the  presence  were 

stirred, 

As  if  they  had  heard  some  sweet  voice  of  the 
spheres. 

They  answered,  but  softly  ;  I  heard  the  reply, 

U0h,  spirit  of  blessedness !  circling  us  so, 
With  the  warmth  of  thine  heart  and  the  glow 

of  thine  eye, 

In  the  joy  of  thy  presence,  we  grow — and 
WE  GROW  ! 

And  the  sound  of  their  growing,  albeit  as  faint 
As   the  star-hymns  that  down  through  the 

distances  fall, 
On   my  heart,  that  had  long  been  so   full  of 

complaint, 

Lay  in  music  power — hushing  its  murmur- 
in  gjs  all. 

And  such  a  sweet  calm  came  upon  me  that  hour ; 

So  stilly  the  passion-tide  sank  to  its  ebb, 
Bliss-trembling,  I  felt  with  the  leaf-bud  and 
flower, 

The  PRESENCE  encircle  my  soul  like  a  web. 


210  LIGHT. 

And  such  a  perception — a  musical  sense  — 
That  seemed  of  the  Infinite  surely  a  part, 

Came  to  me,  that  softly,  I  can  not  say  whence, 
The  voice  of  the  PRESENCE  crept  into  my 
heart 

It  spoke  of  the  wonder,  the  grandeur  of  LAW  ; 

It  talked  of  the  love  that  constrains  to  obey ; 
It  said,  while  I  kneeled,  over-burdened  with 
awe, 

"  The  coming  of  love  is  the  dawning  of  day." 

Wide  open  the  doors  of  my  spirit  I  threw, 

And  let  the  glad  waves  of  the  sunshine  inroll ; 
In  the  joy  of  their  surging,  I  grew — and  I 

grew  — 

For  love  was  the  light  that  had  dawned  on 
my  soul. 


THE  MESSENGER. 

A  sorrow  stole  o'er  me  — 

All  swiftly  it  stole, 
And  darkly  it  shadowed 

My  brow  and  my  soul. 

My  heart's  happy  summer 
Went  by  with  its  mirth  ; 

Its  rose-blooms  of  pleasure 
Were  crushed  to  the  earth. 

Alone,  in  the  winter, 

Dismayed  and  forlorn, 
I  looked  for  no  gladness ; 

I  hoped  for  no  morn. 

Where  lo  !  through  the  darkness, 

Stole  glimpses  of  day ; 
And  the  wing  of  an  angel 

Flashed  over  my  way 


THE   MESSENGER. 

Oh  1  never  heard  mortal 
Such  music  before  : 

"The  Father  hath  sent  me ; 
Thy  trial  is  o'er." 

How  passed  the  lone  winter, 
So  darksome  and  wild  ! 

The  beautiful  summer 

How  sweetly  it  smiled! 

Like  a  terrible  vision, 
The  shadow  went  by, 

'Neath  the  smile  of  the  Fatner 
OUR  Father  on  high. 


WHO  KNOWETH  THE  HEART! 

Oh !  oft  are  we  told  of  warriors  bold 

Who  led,  with  a  look,  the  yielding  throng; 

And  the  mournful  fate  of  the  good  and  great 
Is  chanted  in  many  a  funeral  song. 

And  oft  do  we  read  of  their  terrible  need, 
Who  writhe  under  poverty's  keenest  smart , 

And  the  rich  grew  pale  at  the  sorrowful  tale ; 
But  who  hath  written  the  life  of  the  heart? 

Oh!  who  can  tell  if  the  heart's  dark  cell 

Is  thrilling  with  pleasure  or  throbbing  with 

pain! 
For  the  glance  will  be   gay,  when  its  hopes 

steal  away, 
All  silent  and  sad  like  a  funeral  train. 

Who  knoweth  the  theme  of  the  heart's  fond 

dream, 
la  the  lingering  twilight,  holy  and  still! 


214  WHO  KNOWETH  THE  HEART! 

Who  counteth  its  tears  and  telleth  its  fears. 
When  sorrow  broods  o'er  it  heavy  and  chill! 

Oh,  the  world  hath  no  part  in  the  life  of  the 

heart! 

Unmarked  are  its  conflicts,  unheeded  its  woes; 
It  dwelleth  alone,  its  conquests  unknown, 
And  its  deep  wells  of  feeling,  ah!  who  shall 
disclose ! 

•Though  the  cloud  of  dismay  hath  rolled  over 

its  way, 

In  its  pride  and  its  anguish  it  throbeth  apart ; 
The  glance  may  be  bright  when  it  dwelleth  in 

night, 
And  God,  alone,  knoweth  the  life  of  the  heart. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

The  old,  white-headed  year 
Went  murmuring  to  his  rest, 

And  many  a  frozen  tear 
Fell  on  his  snowy  vest. 

He  shook  his  palsied  head 

With  a  glance  that  chilled  my  heart, 
And  he  pointed  to  the  dead 

That  were  of  his  spoils  a  part. 

And,  as  the  cold  wind  played 

With  the  locks  on  his  pallid  brow, 

u  My  life  is  o'er,"  he  said ; 

u  The  sepulchre  waits  me  now." 

His  voice,  like  the  night-wind  shrill, 
Rang  wofully  on  mine  ear  ; 

And  I  paused,  while,  murmuring  still, 
He  crept  to  his  frozen  bier. 


216       THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

"And  dost  thou  weep  for  me?" 
'Twas  thus  I  heard  him  say; 

"I  shed  no  tears  for  thee, 
When  I  stole  thy  gems  away. 

"I  have  plucked  thy  fairest  flowers, 
And  hid  them  from  thy  sight ; 

And  o'er  thy  gayest  hours 

Have  thrown  a  withering  blight. 

"  I  found  thee,  wild  with  glee, 
I  leave  thee,  deathly  sad ; 

I  have  not  spared  to  thee 
One  joy  to  make  thee  glad. 

"My  hand,  amid  thy  cups, 
Has  turned  their  wine  to  gall; 

And  from  thy  heart  thy  hopes, 
Like  rose  corollas,  fall. 

"  Then  wherefore  weep  for  me?  " 
The  old  year  moaning  said  ; 

"  The  new  year  comes  with  glee ; 
Rejoice  when  I  am  dead." 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR.      217 

With  downcast,  aching  eyes, 

Beside  his  frozen  bier, 
Beneath  the  midnight  skies, 

I  watched  the  dying  year. 

The  chill  night- wind  arose, 
And  o'er  the  deep  sties  stole, 

Wafting  a  cloud  of  woes, 
As  dark  as  my  own  soul. 

Down  from  the  sable  spheres, 

With  wild,  funereal  cries, 
Came  a  long  train  of  years, 

And  closed  the  rayless  eyes. 

And,  with  a  heart  like  lead, 

I  whispered,  o'er  the  bier, 
"  Would  that  I,  too,  were  dead 

And  cold,  like  this  dead  year." 
10 


HEAVEN. 

Land  of  the  holy,  sweet  country  of  rest ! 

Oh,  tell  me  how  far  may  thy  boundaries  be! 

Is  there  no  bower  in  thy  borders  for  me? 
Have  I  not  also  some  part  with  thy  blest, 
Land  of  the  beautiful,  country  of  rest? 

I  have  been  told  of  thy  wonderful  light, 

Glowing  and  flowing  down  from  the  Supreme ; 
I  have  been  told  of  thy  life-giving  stream, 

Bordered  so  sweetly  with  flowers  of  white ; 

Kingdom  of  loveliness,  home  of  delight. 

Well  do  I  know  that  the  summers  I  love 
Dwell  there  forever,  unshadowed  by  gloom; 
Royal  their  presence,  unfading  their  bloom: 
Fain  would  my  spirit  thy  loveliness  prove, 
Fountain  of  happiness,  dwelling  of  love. 

Yet,  were  thy  beauty  but  tinsel  and  glare ; 
Yet,  were  thy  summers  unwelcome  and  cold, 


HEAVEN.  219 

Did  I  not  know  that  thy  sunshine  of  gold 
Smiles  o'er  the  loved  ones  who  wait  for  me 

there, 
Clad  in  the  garments  the  cherubim  wear. 

Oh!  let  thick  darkness  rest  over  my  head; 

Let  dull- visage  d  care  bear  contentment  away; 

Across  my  sad  soul  flies  thy  vision  of  day ; 
And  faith  to  my  heart's  secret  altar  is  led, 
With  peace,  sweet  consoler,  eternally  wed. 

Sweet  heaven !  the  thought  of  thy  blessedness 
falls 

Upon  me,  like  rain  from  the  river  of  Life ; 

And  out  of  time's  bitterness,  out  of  its  strife, 
My  soul,  like  a  bird,  in  the  fierce  tempest  calls 
For  rest  by  the  side  of  thy  sheltering  walls. 


THE  LESSON. 

Don't  be  frightened,  little  bird! 
But  your  chirping  voice  I  heard 
Underneath  the  apple  tree  ; 
And  I  said,  "  I  '11  go  and  see ;  " 
Thinking  I  perhaps  might  find 
Some  new  lesson  for  the  mind. 

I'll  be  careful!  ah!  indeed, 
Here 's  a  family  to  feed, 
And  who  does  it  ?  surely  you 
Must  have  something  else  to  do. 
Songs  to  sing,  and  sights  to  see  — 
What  a  burden  they  must  be ! 

"  Only  four  of  them  ?  "     I  know  ; 
But  the  four  must  live  and  grow ; 
And  your  little  wings  must  ply 
To  and  fro,  throughout  the  sky. 


THE  LESSON. 


221 


Don't  you  often  think,  my  dear, 
You  have  one  too  many  here? 

"Slander  you?"  You're  very  pert! 
Surely,  friend,  I  meant  no  hurt ; 
But  it's  very  plain  to  see 
You're  as  poor  as  bird  can  be 
Every  thing  you  seem  to  lack, 
Save  the  little  on  your  back. 

Now,  how  can  you  sit  and  sing  ? 
Really,  such  a  fluttering 
Makes  me  nervous.     What  a  crowd ! 
How  the  piping,  shrill  and  loud, 
Must  annoy  you!  yet,  you  seem 
Cool  and  tranquil  while  they  scream. 

" Like  to  hear  it? "     Well,  that's  droll! 
One  who  claims  to  have  a  soul 
Said,  but  yesterday,  to  me, 
"  Never  raise  a  family!  " 
But  the  matter  let  us  hush  — 
'Twas  a  woman  —  don't  you  blush? 


222  THE  LESSON. 

Does  it  never,  never  prove 
Wearisome,  this  mother-love? 
When  the  golden  days  invite 
To  a  higher,  longer  flight, 
Does  the  heart  forget  its  mirth — • 
Drooping,  like  the  wing,  to  earth  ? 

Ah!  I  hear  your  glad  reply — 
Hear  it  in  your  happy  cry, 
While  I  softly  go  away, 
"Even  for  a  single  day, 
Burden  such  as  this  to  bear, 
Is  a  bliss  beyond  compare." 

Well,  good  by!  when  next  you  see 
Some  young  lady,  just  like  me  — 
Tell  her  over,  word  for  word, 
The  sweet  story  I  have  heard, 
Possibly,  she  dare  not  be 
Burdened  with  a  family. 

Tell  her  how  you  gladly  soar 
After  treasures  for  the  four ; 
Tell  her  how  you  softly  fling 
Over  them  your  guardian  wing, 
And  like  me,  she  '11  soon  depart, 
With  a  lesson  for  the  heart. 


VISIONS. 

When  silent-footed  evening  draws, 
With  fingers  cold  and  damp, 

A  curtain  round  the  bustling  earth, 
And  lights  her  silver  lamp, 

Then,  clustering  round  the  weary  heart, 
Come  visions  strange  and  fair  ; 

And  till  the  twilight  hour  is  passed, 
They  lightly  linger  there. 

And,  softly  calling  up  again 

The  forms  of  faded  years, 
Until  the  lip  is  pale,  and  eyes 

Are  dim  with  gathering  tears, 

Among  the  chambers  of  the  soul, 
Their  gentle  footsteps  fall ; 

And  holy  hopes  and  high  resolves 
Come  thronging  at  their  call. 


224  VISIONS. 

They  sing  of  love,  and  gentler  grows 
The  heart  beneath  their  spell, 

Till  music  gushes,  soft  and  sweet, 
From  chords  they  touch  so  well. 

And  ever  after  lurks  a  chime 

Amid  its  many  cells, 
Like  the  low  winds  imprisoned  close 

Within  the  ocean  shells. 

They  sing  of  death  — the  spirit  thrills 

In  sudden,  deadly  fear; 
As  thoughts  of  the  long  shroud  arise, 

The  coffin  and  the  bier. 

And  silent  tears  fall  down  the  breast; 

We  feel  a  nameless  dread, 
As  memory,  pointing  to  the  past, 

Calls  up  to  us  the  dead. 

Then  come  the  friends  we  buried  once, 
With  earnest  voices  calling, 

While  the  dark  vail  that  hid  them  long 
From  our  rapt  sight  is  falling. 


VISIONS.  225 

And  earth  looks  very  cold  and  dark — 
And  heaven  looks  bright  and  fair ; 

And  the  half-broken,  restless  heart 
Is  longing  to  be  there. 

'Tis  thus  that  twilight  visions  come, 
Laden  with  hope  and  light ; 

\nd  sing  the  gladdened  soul  asleep, 
Beneath  the  brow  of  night. 
10* 


THE  FUTURE. 

I  stand  on  a  barren  shore, 

With  the  present  at  my  side ; 
But,  dreaming,  I  see,  o'er  the  waves  before, 

The  years  of  the  future  glide. 

I  watch  with  eager  eyes 

Those  mystical  years  to  be ; 
While  the  sweeping  life-tide  bears  them  on, 

As  the  ships  are  borne  at  sea. 

The  life-tide  brings  them  on, 
Unharmed  by  breaker  or  blast ; 

But  around  me  lie  on  my  spirit-strand 
The  wrecks  of  the  desolate  past. 

The  sad  waves  at  my  feet 

Break  into  a  grievous  moan ; 
But,  afar,  the  songs  of  billows  swell 

To  a  grand,  triumphal  tone. 


THE  FUTURE.  227 

I  will  not  heed  the  words, 

That  the  lone  waves  tell  to  me : 
But  my  heart  shall  beat  to  the  martial  tune 

That  surges  across  the  sea. 

I  will  not  mourn  the  past  — 

The  present  will  soon  depart ; 
Life's  storms  may  wreck  the  passing  years ; 

But  they  shall  not  wreck  my  heart. 

Perchance,  some  golden  year, 

Like  a  ship,  wide-winged  and  free 

Will  yet,  all  laden  with  blissful  days, 
Float  over  the  smiling  sea. 

And  the  grand,  triumphal  song 

That  the  far-off  billows  sing, 
May  be  but  a  presage,  glad  and  sweet, 

Of  the  joy  those  days  shall  bring. 

So,  thus,  on  the  shore  I'll  stand, 

By  the  side  of  the  swelling  sea; 
And,  dreaming,  wait  till  the  tide  shall  bring, 

The  mystical  years  to  be. 


TO  A  LITTLE  POETESS. 

ding  away,  sweet  Lottie,  sing  away ! 

In  this  bustling  kingdom  of  the  world, 
Many  a  voice  is  hushed  that  should  be  gay ; 

Many  a  wing  that  ought  to  soar  is  furled. 

Sing  away,  and  be  the  robin's  song 

Thine  —  outgushing  from  a  happy  heart, 

Innocent  of  vanity  and  wrong  — 

Learn  of  love  and  light  thy  music-art. 

Never  wish  to  be  the  nightingale; 

For  the  owl,  (speak  low,  the  critic,  dear,) 
Wakening  at  her  voice  in  starlight  pale, 

H^oots,  "reviews"  into  her  shrinking  ear. 

In  the  night  of  sorrow's  bitterness, 
Richest,  rarest  poet  strains  are  sent 

From  the  secret  spirit's  dim  recess, 
On  the  wailing  wind  of  discontent. 


TO  A   LITTLE    POETESS.  229 

Never  wish  to  be  the  nightingale! 

Sing  away,  sweet  Lottie,  in  the  sun! 
If  thy  crimson  summer  day  should  fail, 

Cease  thy  tune.;  let  light  and  song  be  one. 

Sing,  like  gleeful  robins,  clear  and  loud, 
When  thy  dreamy  soul  is  surnmer-kisssed ; 

Be  the  smallest  love-illumined  cloud, 
Rather  than  the  huge  cold  evening  mist. 

And  may  every  heart  that  hears  thy  lays 
Sing  in  glad  response,  as  mine  has  done. 

Fly,  sweet  robin,  on  thy  music  ways ; 
May  the  Brightest  keep  thee  in  the  sun. 


MOTHER  NATURE. 

Oh !  what  a  holy  face 

Sweet  Mother  Nature  wears! 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  full  of  grace, 

Like  the  face  of  a  soul  at  prayers, 
While   suns  smile  down  from   the  answering 

skies, 
And  the  wants  of  her  heart  exhale  in  sighs. 

Carefully,  warily  tread, 

Over  the  throbbing  land; 
For  under  your  feet  in  many  a  bed 

Her  embryo  children  stand ; — 
She  covers  them  all  from  curious  sight, 
Till  their  sensitive  eyes  shall  bear  the  light. 

Let  your  taste  be  ever  so  nice, 
Her  minstrels  will  charm  you  long; 
For  she  knoweth  many  a  quaint  device, 
To  startle  them  into  song ; 


MOTHER   NATURE.  231 

She  tutors  them  all  —  the  sad,  the  gay  — 
Lest  discord  trouble  the  ear  of  day. 

Learn  of  her  tender  grace ; 

For  she  hath  learned  of  GOD. 
She  flings  her  arms,  in  a  warm  embrace, 

Over  the  dusky  clod, 
And,  see!  what  wonderful  things  awake, 
Out  of  the  dark,  for  her  sweet  sake ! 

Oh!  anxious  mothers,  find, 

If  ye  can,  her  fairy  gift ; 
Out  of  the  yet  untutored  mind, 

All  beautiful  things  to  lift; 
So  shall  your  blooming  children  rise, 
Pure  in  the  light  of  your  loving  eyes. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  WRONGED  LIFE. 

Over  desert  wilds  she  strayed, 
And  the  sand  beneath  was  hot; 

There  was  neither  dewy  shade, 
Pleasant  glen,  nor  kindly  grot. 

Ah !  so  wearily  she  went, 

Burdened  with  her  youth's  lone  years! 
Strength  and  will  alike  were  spent; 

All  but  faith  was  quenched  in  tears. 

Lo !  at  length  a  garden  fair 

Lay  inviting  by  her  side ; 
Pleasant  fruits  were  blooming  there, 

By  cool  rivers,  deep  and  wide. 

Presently,  a  face  looked  out ; 

'T  was  a  pleasant,  puzzling  face ; 
But  she  had  no  heart  to  doubt, 

For  the  beauty  of  the  place. 


THE   STORY   OF   A  WRONGED   LIFE.          233 

Sick  and  weary  of  the  sand, 

Where  her  toiling  feet  had  been, 

Pleading,  stretched  she  out  her  hand, 
And  the  Unknown  led  her  in. 

By  the  fountain's  smiling  side, 
By  the  fruit  trees  green  and  tall, 

To  the  rivers  cool  and  wide, 
Led  her  there,  and  that  was  all. 

Famished,  parched,  the  streams  she  eyed, 
And  the  fruit  that  hung  so  high ; — 

All  her  longing  spirit  cried, 
"Feed  me,  feed  me,  or  I  die! 

"At  the  fountain  let  me  quaff; 

See,  its  precious  wave,  how  clear ! " 
Heard  she  then  a  taunting  laugh  — 

Saw  she  then  a  mocking  sneer. 

0 
Sneers  upon  that  puzzling  face, 

Filled  her  soul  with  fear  and  doubt, — 
From  the  pleasant,  blooming  place, 

Then  the  Unknown  led  her  out. 


234          THE   STORY   OF   A   WRONGED    LIEE. 

'T  was  the  final  drop  of  woe  ; — 

Strength  and  will  had  gone  before ; — 

A.S  she  now,  through  wilds  doth  go, 
Faith  walks  with  her  never  more. 


THE  HIDDEN  FOUNTAIN. 

Ho!  brave  knights!  there's  a  mystic  land 
Where  sweet  waters  in  melody  flow ; — 

Who  of  all  your  valorous  band 
Into  its  haunted  verge  will  go  ? 

There  is  a  secret  fountain  there ; — 
Precious  gems  in  its  pure  waves  lie ; — 

Pearls,  that  glimmer  as  soft  and  fair 
As  the  light  of  a  smiling  infant's  eye. 

Rubies,  red  as  a  rose's  heart, 

Glow  like  a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  Truth 
And,  whenever  the  ripples  part, 

Diamonds  flash  like  the  eyes  of  youth. 

• 
Over  this  realm  there  reigns  a  queen — 

Fairest  is  she  of  all  the  fair — 
Pass  her  by  with  a  careless  mien, 

Question  her  not  if  the  fount  is  there- 


236  THE    HIDDEN    FOUNTAIN. 

She  would  lead  thee  a  bootless  chase, 

Laughing  secretly  all  the  while, 
Bewildering  thee  with  her  changeful  grace: — 

Ah !  she  is  full  of  fairy  guile. 

Careless  pass;  yet  arm  thee,  knight; — 
Well  can  the  queen  defend  her  own ; — 

Every  glance  of  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Straight  at  thy  heart  like  a  lance  is  thrown. 

Well  can  the  delicate,  wayward  maid, 
Ridicule's  two-edged  weapon  wield ; 

Lest  thou  flee  from  its  sweeping  blade, 
Arm  thyself  with  a  brazen  shield. 

If  taunts,  like  arrows,  around  thee  fly, — 

Sarcasm's  keenest  shafts  repel; 
Strong  thy  heart,  and  thy  bearing  high, 

Press  thou  on  to  the  hidden  well. 

Close  to  the  fountain's  banks  of  green, 

Blooms  the  delicate  heliotrope, 
And  the  saintly  lily,  a  vestal  queen, 

Lifts  her  pearl-white  goblet  up. 


THE   HIDDEN    FOUNTAIN.  237 

Timid  violets  bend  their  heads, 

Down  by  the  blue-veined  myrtle-blows, 

Daisies  peer  from  their  lowly  beds, 
Up  at  the  buds  of  the  blushing  rose. 

Ah!  when  once  the  fountain  is  found, 

Rich,  brave  knight,  shall  thy  guerdon  be; 

Every  gem  of  the  haunted  ground 
Gleams  like  a  loving  smile  for  thee. 

Then  shall  the  queen  of  this  fairy  land 

Whisper  sweet  blessings,  in  love's  low  tone ; 
Press  to  thy  heart  her  dainty  hand, 
,  Fountain  and  queen  are  all  thine  own. 

Haste  ye  knights !  or  the  hour  will  prove, 
All  too  late  for  your  eager  quest. 

Who  will  search  for  the  Fount  of  Love, 
Deep  in  the  realm  of  a  maiden's  breast. 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  FLOWER. 

With  the  golden  sunlight  streaming 

O'er  its  little,  blooming  face, 
Lay  an  infant,  calmly  dreaming, 

With  a  sweet,  unconscious  grace. 

How  I  loved  that  cherub-creature, 

As  he  slept,  so  still  and  fair! 
For  each  softly  chiseled  feature 

Seemed  the  seal  of  love  to  wear. 

With  the  lilies  drooping  o'er  him, 

And  the  daisies  by  his  side, 
And  the  streamlet  just  before  him, 

With  its  gentle,  murmuring  tide ; — 

With  a  host  of  silken  ringlets 
Crushed  beneath  the  little  head, 

Still  he  lay,  like  sleeping  fairy, 
Dreaming  on  the  violet  bed. 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  FLOWER.      239 

Close  the  chubby  hands  were  folded 

O'er  the  little,  beating  heart; 
And  the  lips,  to  beauty  molded, 

Lay  like  poppy  leaves  apart; 

While  the  breeze  passed  o'er  him  lightly, 
With  a  low  and  whispering  sound, 

And  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
On  the  meadows  all  around. 

Not  for  worlds  would  I  have  wakened 
That  sweet  infant,  slumbering  there ; 

But  I  feasted  on  his  beauty  > 
And  I  breathed  a  silent  prayer, 

That  the  blight  of  sin  should  never 
Wither  that  bright  opening  flower, 

Till,  as  pure  and  fresh  as  ever, 
It  should  grace  a  lovlier  bower. 

And  that  heartfelt  prayer  was  granted ; — 

Ere  returning  summer's  reign, 
The  beauteous  flower  had  been  transplanted, 

And  it  bloomed  in  heaven  again. 


TO  JENNIE  K . 

A   WATER-CURE   FRIEND. 

Oh !  what  will  you  do  without  me ! 
For  my  love  for  you,  floats  through  the  world 

of  my  breast, 

As  the  zephyr  of  morning  blows  out  of  the  west ; 
And  your  ear  has  been  bowed  for  my  blessing 

each  day; 
For  love,  sweet,  is  love,  let  it  come  whence  it 

may; — 
Oh!  what  will  you  do  without  me? 

Oh !  what  will  you  do  without  me, 
To  steal  to  your  room,  in  the  twilight-time, 
With  a  pleasant  tale,  or  a  golden  rhyme, 
Or,  low  at  your  feet,  to  look  up  to  your  face, 
And  coax  the  thoughts  out  of  their  secret  place? 

Now,  what  will  you  do  without  me? 


TO    JENNIE    K .  241 

Ah!  what  can  you  do  without  me? 
You  know  you  will  wish  for  me  morning  and 

eve; 
You  know  in  the  night  you  will  waken  and 

grieve; 

For  you  said  to  me  once,  with  a  heavenly  look, 
"  You  open  my  heart  as  one  opens  a  book;" 
So  what  can  you  do  without  me  ? 

Nay!  what  shall  I  do  without  you? 
Ah!  vain, that  I  am!  even  now  do  I  feel 
Eclipses  of  loneliness  over  me  steal, 
And  tremble  to  think  of  the  wearisome  days, 
When  we  shall  revolve  in  our  separate  ways ; 

For  what  can  I  do  without  you? 

Oh!  what  shall  I  do  without  you, 
If  the  cold  hand  of  sickness  glide  over  each 

limb, 
And  my  lids  droop  low,  and  mine  eyes   get 

dim, 

And  my  voice  quavers  down  to  a  gasping  tone, 
That  is  half  a  whisper  and  half  a  groan ; — 
What  then  shall  I  do  without  you? 

n 


242  TO    JENNIE    K . 

Oh !  how  can  I  live  without  you  ? 
A  face  at  my  side,  when  I  quivered  with  pain, 
A  voice  stealing  over  my  sensitive  brain, 
Saying,  uLet  me  do  this,  for  the  sake  of  my 

love!" 
This,  this  is  the  way  it  was  wont  to  prove, 

Oh!  how  can  I  live  without  you? 

And  yet  I  can  live  without  you ; 
For  when  I  have  found  a  heart  shaken  and 

worn, 

I  will  think  of  the  cup  of  relief  you  have  borne, 
And  I'll   say,    (all  your  beautiful   actions   to 

prove,) 
"  Drink,  friend,  of  my  draught,  for  the  sake  of 

my  love;" 
This  way  I  can  live  without  you. 


A  HYMN  OP  DEITY. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  power  of  God;  see  where  he 

flings 

O'er  his  infant  creation  the  shade  of  his  wings  ; 
While  sun-warmed  immensities  under  him  lie, 
And  he  writes  his  perfections  on  lily  and  sky. 

Sing,  sing  of  his  power  — 
Creator  of  planet,  creator  of  flower. 

Sing,  sing  of  his  justice,  unchangeable,  right; 
Archangel  and  beggar  are  garbed  with  its  light, 
And  the  grass  in  the  meadow  is  fashioned  to 

wear 
The  crown  of  his  brightness  —  the  robe  of  his 

care. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  glo\v 
Of  his  justice,  that  reaches  so  high  and  so  low. 


Sing,  sing  of  his  wisdom  —  a  rule  for  the  star 
That  rolls  in  its  milk-white  effulgence  afar, 
A  wing  for  the  bird  —  for  the  insect  a  plan  — 


244  A    HYMN     OF    DEITY. 

A  lair  for  the  beast,  and  a  spirit  for  man. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  broad, 
And  fatherly  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  God. 

Sing,  sing  of  his  holiness,  tender  and  sweet, 
In  the  white,  seventh  heaven  it  glistens  complete; 
It  shines  on  the  world,  in  its  night-shrouded 

place, 
And  the  waves  of  humanity  after  it  race. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  grace, 
And  ineffable  purity  lighting  his  face. 

Sing,  sing    of  his  loves; — oh!   sink    down  to 

your  knees, 
While  ye  sing  of  the  grandeur,  the  sweetness 

of  these ; 

Like  ethereal  tides,  all  the  star-shores  they  lave; 
They  sanctify  nature,  they  melt  through  the 

grave. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  sea, 
Of  his  love,  that  is  sweeping  o'er  you  and  o'er 

me. 

Sing,  sing  of  the  Deity;  softly  and  low 
Let  the  rythmical  pulses  of  melody  flow; 


A   HYMN    OF    DEITY.  245 

While,  like  Christ  at  the  river,  he  leans  from  the 

spheres, 
For  gratitude's  holiest  baptism  —  tears. 

Sing,  sing  till  the  dove, 
Winging  earthward,  reveals  the  sweet  course  of 

his  love. 

Sing,  sing !  In  his  incomprehensible  will, 

He  has  made  us,  and  loved  us,  and  guarded  us 

still. 
We  will  carol  his  praises  till  death  opes  the 

door, 
And  leads  us  to  sing  at  his  feet  evermore. 

Sing,  sing  till  our  sire, 
Shall  sweetly  baptise  us  with  holiest  fire. 


AND  BEHOLD!  IT  WAS  GOOD.  ' 

How  grew  this  glad  plant  out  of  the  ground  ? 

From  the  little  seed  that,  long  ago, 

Silent  and  humble,  crept  below, 
Blind  to  the  light  and  deaf  to  the  sound, 

And,  clasped  to  the  breast  of  the  nursing 
mold, 

From  the  deadly  breath  of  the  wintry  cold, 
A  kindly  and  safe  asylum  found; 

Then  spring,  like  a  cherishing  Saviour  stood, 
And  opened  its  closed  and  sightless  eyes, 
And  touched  its  ears  with  exquisite  cries, 

And  fed  it  with  all  nutritious  food ; 

Then  it  stirred  in  its  vesture  —  stirred  and 

grew 
Graceful  of  form  and  pleasant  of  hue, 

And  the  smiling  sun  pronounced  it  good. 


AND    BEHOLD!    IT    WAS    GOOD.  247 

Compelled  by  mercy's  silken  bands, 

That  clasped  its  warm  and  quivering  limbs, 
It  came,  to  join  in  worshipful  hymns ; 

So,  lifting  its  veined  and  beautiful  hands, 
And  waving  its  slow  and  gauzy  wings, 
Among  all  happy  created  things, 

Crowned  with  a  fair,  white  flower,  it  stands. 


How  grew  this  great  world  out  of  space? 
From  the  nucleus  seed,  that,  long  ago, 
Dropped  from  the  "tree  of  life"  below, 

And  clasped  in  ether's  kind  embrace, 
Lay  in  a  trance,  till  Deity  came, 
And  smiled  upon  it,  and  named  its  name, 

And  dewed  it  with  all  baptismal  grace , 

And  fed  it  with  warm  electric  food ; 

Then  it  stirred  in  embryo  life,  and  felt 

The  frost  of  its  wintry  ages  melt, 
While  the  flame  rushed  through  in  a  crimson 
flood, 

Quickening  its  senses,  so  obtuse, 

Sanctifying  it  to  his  use, 
And  the  FATHER  pronounced  it  very  good. 


248       AND  BEHOLD!  IT  WAS  GOOD. 

'Twas  thus  its  tortuous  course  began, 
With  cloud  wings  waving  large,  and  far 
To  follow  the  flight  of  the  morning  star, 

And  rivers  of  light  beside  it  ran; 

So  the  bands  of  mercy  this  fair  world  lace, 
While  it  swings  about  in  its  radiant  place, 

And  the  flower  wherewith  it  is  crowned  is  man. 


CAROLINE. 

INSCRIBED    TO   MR.    AND   MRS.    RICHARD   JOHNSON, 
AND    N.    M.    TREADWELL. 

How  sad  to  see  the  human  lie 

In  the  white  coffin-room, 
With  marble  breast  that  can  not  sigh, 

And  cheek  that  may  not  bloom. 

This  calm,  cold  clay  was  Caroline. 

From  'neath  this  smooth  lid's  fall, 
A  gentle  eye  was  wont  to  shine 

In  kindliness  on  all. 

These  lips  have  spoken  pleasant  things ; 

These  stirless  hands  have  moved 
In  such  spontaneous  care  as  brings 

A  sense  that  we  are  loved. 

These  feet  have  walked  with  noiseless  tread 

Beside  you,  hour  by  hour; 
u* 


250  CAROLINE. 

And  on  your  arms  this  girlish  head 
Has  drooped  like  dew-weighed  flower. 

Ye  weep  for  Carrie; — on  her  face 

Your  briny  teardrops  fall, 
And  there  their  chilly  courses  trace; — 

She  heeds  them  not  at  all. 

Folded  into  the  death-seas'  flood, 

When  late  her  gentle  life 
Had  passed  its  princess  maidenhood, 

And  worn  the  crown  of  wife. 

Out  of  her  love-warm  home  she  died, 

Just  when  another  breast 
Had  drawn  from  her's  its  rippling  tide, 

And  woke  to  life's  unrest. 

Let  the  sweet  rays  of  smiling  day 

Steal  round  her,  one  by  one, 
Until  we  hide  this  cold,  cold  clay, 

Forever  from  the  sun. 

Alas!  that  death's  white  vail  should  sweep 

Across  her  placid  brow ! 
Weep  for  doubly  wedded,  weep ! 

The  " Bride  of  Heaven"  now. 


CAROLINE.  251 

Pass  on  toward  the  grave !  ye  know 

This  is  not  Caroline. 
Where  she  has  gone,  we  too  shall  go; 

Both  your  freed  souls  and  mine. 

Weep,  weep  no  more !  for  death's  white  vail, 

If  lifted,  in  the  place 
Of  this  calm  cheek,  so  cold  and  pale, 

Would  show  an  angel's  face. 


SPRING  WINDS. 

The  spring  winds  wander  deftly, 
At  work  the  live-long  hours, 

Shaking  the  green  stems  softly, 
And  coaxing  out  the  flowers. 

Drifting  aside  with  laughter 
The  leaves  so  old  and  brown, 

That  sulky  autumn's  sobbing, 
With  sighing  breath,  blew  down. 


Lifting  into  the  sunshine 

The  timid  wind-flower's  head, 

And  piling  up  green  mosses, 
About  the  sun-dew's  bed. 

Brushing  the  rust  of  winter 
From  nature's  golden  lute, 

Touching  the  strings  in  prelude, 
While  summer's  voice  is  mute. 


SPRING    WINDS.  253 

Spreading  the  fern's  green  mantle 
Above  the  covering  forms, 

Of  little  bind-weed  blossoms, 

/ 

That  tremble  at  the  storms. 

So  the  spring  winds  walk  deftly, 

At  work  the  live-long  hours, 
Shaking  the  green  stems  softly, 

And  coaxing  out  the  flowers. 

Thus,  when  the  heart's  dark  winter 

With  chilling  wind  has  gone, 
Who  would  not  be  the  zephyr, 

To  hasten  summer  on  ? 

When  little  words  of  kindness 

Such  thrills  of  joy  confer, 
Who  would  not  set  the  heart-strings, 

With  melody  astir. 

Spring  wind,  at  work  so  deftly, 

About  the  scented  grove, 
Well  dost  thou  teach  that  kindness 
Can  but  awaken  love/ 


254  SPRING  WINDS. 

For  gentle,  soft  embraces, 
And  tender  smiling  eyes, 

Dispel  the  darkest  storm-clouds 
That  hurtle  through  the  skies. 


THE  WORLD. 

Why  should  I  weep  for  the  world? 

Weeping  would  never  avail, 
To  wring  from  his  ruthless  breast  a  sigh, 

Or  loosen  his  coat  of  mail. 

Who  to  his  lofty  head, 

Or  his  bragging  lip  would  trust? 
For,  still,  with  a  giant's  mighty  tread, 

He  tramples  us  into  the  dust. 

Why  for  his  smile  should  I  pine  ? 

What  can  he  give  to  me? 
Gold  from  the  depth  of  the  hard-worked  mine  ? 

Pearls  from  the  rolling  sea? 

4t 

Nay  !  but  he  gives  not  these ; 
And  if  he  did,  what  then? 


256  THE  WORLD. 

Neither  the  wealth  of  land  or  seas 
Maketh  the  wealth  of  men. 

Many  a  man,  whose  chest 

Locketh  the  shining  gold, 
Knows  of  a  room,  within  his  breast, 

Empty,  and  dark,  and  cold. 

What  are  his  blooming  lands, 

What  are  his  money-bags, 
When,  in  the  night  of  death,  he  stands, 

A  beggarly  soul  in  rags  ? 

And  if  to  the  world  I  kneel 

What  will  he  give  me  then  ? 
Flowery  wreaths  for  my'spirit's  weal? 

Loves  of  women  and  men  ? 

Nay ;  for  the  brightest  flowers 

Wither  along  his  path ; 
And  every  soul  with  its  loves  and  powers 

Weareth  his  sign  of  scath. 

Oh  !  beggarly  world,  depart ! 
Thou  hast  not  a  gift  for  me ; 


THE  WORLD.  251 

Tears  come  out  of  my  sorrowing  heart ; 
But  I  am  not  weeping  for  thee. 

Only  for  those  who  trust, 

World,  in  thy  fleeting  charms; 

Weeping,  to  see  them  fall  like  dust 
Out  of  thy  nerveless  arms. 

Oh  !  semblance  of  wealth  and  worth, 

Where  is  thy  boasted  might  ? 
Canst  thou  not  gather  thy  lovers  forth, 

Out  of  the  realm  of  night  ? 

Nay  ?  then,  thou  world,  depart ! 

For  I  have  in  my  soul,  to-day, 
A  treasure,  to  which  thy  golden  mart 

Is  but  a  pit  of  clay. 

Here,  here  in  my  heart,  there  lies 

A  palace  of  beauty  rare ; 
And  sweet,  white  faces  and  holy  eyes 

Look  pleasantly  on  me  there. 

Those  angels — sweet  prophets  are  they  — 
Singing  ballads  of  heavenly  bliss  ; 


258  THE  WORLD. 

Oh,  world  !  with  thy  glittering  pageants  gay, 
Thou  givest  me  nothing  like  this. 

Thou  callest  thyself  a  king. 

Go,  monarch,  and  leave  me  alone ; 
For  an  adder-coil  is  thy  signet  ring, 

And  a  sepulchre  thy  throne. 


THE  SOUL'S  TRIUMPH. 

Come  in,  oh,  my  visitor,  Sorrow, 
Come  into  my  heart  for  a  while ; 

Let  me  see  if  thine  eyes  can  not  borrow 
Some  light  from  the  sun  of  my  smile. 

The  May  waltzes  over  the  meadow, 
The  little  birds  carol  in  tune ; 

What  news  from  the  region  of  shadow  ? 
Are  clouds  floating  up  for  my  June  ? 

"  Oh!  soul!  the  bright  castle  of  wonders, 
Built  up  in  thine  April  delight, 

Is  rocked  by  reality's  thunders, 

And  fades,  like  thin  mist,  out  of  sight ! 

It  is  well ; — for  the  structure  was  airy, 
And  frail,  as  a  castle  could  seem ; — 

Its  halls  were  but  fit  for  a  fairy ; 
Its  pillars  were  hewn  of  a  dream. 


260  THE   SOULS   TRIUMPH. 

Let  it  pass,  with  its  perishing  glory  — 

The  toy  of  a  baby  at  best — 
Small  heed  has  thy  dolorous  story, 

When  May  blisses  sing  in  my  breast ! 

Art thou come  again,  visitor  Sorrow? 

How  white  is  thy  face,  and  how  thin! 
Come  thou  to  my  June  bower,  and  borrow, 

The  bloom  and  the  luster  within. 

The  summer  sun  laughs  in  the  azure, 
The  gleeful  winds  laugh  in  the  trees; 

And  full  of  its  youth  and  its  pleasure, 
My  light  heart  is  laughing  with  these. 

"Nay,  soul!  for  a  pallor  is  creeping 
Across  the  blue  heaven  of  bliss ; 

Disease  opes    the  fountains  of  weeping ; 
The  mirth  of  thy  laugh  is  amiss." 

Now,  skeleton  fetters  have  bound  me; 

Yet  they  are  but  fetters  of  clay, 
And,  warmed  with  the  sunshine  around  me, 

I  yet  can  be  smiling  and  gay. 


THE    SOUL'S   TRIUMPH.  261 

The  loves  of  the  human  shall  feed  me, 
Like  droppings  of  honeycomb  dew ; — 

The  rose-links  of  beauty  shall  lead  me, 
And  autumn  hang  grapes  in  my  view. 


Again  dost  thou  enter,  oh,  Sorrow? 

Thy  dark  robe  is  faded  and  torn. 
Hast  thou  come  in  thy  squalor,  to  borrow 

These  garments  of  light  I  have  worn  ? 

I  yield  thee  my  August  tiara, 

And  take  the  full  cup  thou  dost  bear ; — 
It  is  brimming  with  waters  of  Marah  — 

What  news  from  the  land  of  despair  ? 

"  Wail,  soul!  for  the  frowning  September 
Has  hewn  down  thy  loves  to  their  graves; 

Already  the  cruel  November 

His  scepter  of  dreariness  waves." 

Now,  dark  is  the  earthly,  the  outer ; 

And  icy  my  lusterless  bower; 
But  shall  I  turn,  trembler,  and  doubter, 

The  football  of  fear,  from  this  hour? 


262  THE  SOUL'S  TRIUMPH. 

I  will  close  up  the  door  of  my  dwelling, 
And  light  up  the  fire  on  the  hearth ; — - 

My  songs  to  the  world  shall  be  telling, 
All  night,  of  my  banquet  of  mirth. 


Once  more,  oh,  dark  prophetess,  Sorrow ! 

Come  into  the  house  of  my  heart ; 
Let  me  see  if  thy  form  can  not  borrow 

Some  warmth,  ere  I  bid  thee  depart. 

The  light  and  the  beauty  are  faded; 

The  gladness  and  glory  are  o'er; 
Life's  butterfly  wings  are  abraded ; — 

What  news  from  the  Stygian  shore  ? 

"Oh!  soul,  as  I  passed  through  the  valley, 
Where  blackness  hangs  down  like  a  weight, 

I  saw  the  fleet  death-armies  rally, 
And,  lo!  they  are  at  thy  gate." 

Now,  Sorrow,  thy  name  shall  be  Sorrow 

No  more,  while  eternities  roll ! 
Thou  dost  promise  a  brighter  to-morrow 

Than  ever  yet  gladdened  my  soul. 


THE   SOULS   TRIUMPH.  263 

The  death-armies  move  at  the  pleasure 

Of  one  who  is  mighty  to  save. 
The  sun  smiles  again  in  the  azure, 

And  flowers  droop  over  the  grave. 

Dost  thou  see  not  the  mansion  of  wonders, 
Built  up  for  my  sky-climbing  feet? 

It  is  rocked  by  no  terrible  thunders, 
Nor  smitten  by  simoon  or  sleet. 

And  seest  thou  my  golden  tiara, — 
My  glistening  garment  of  white  ? 

Oh !  sweet  are  the  waters  of  Mar  ah ! 
And,  Sorrow,  thy  name  is  Delight! 

The  loves  of  the  cherubim  feed  me, 
Like  droppings  of  honeycomb  dew ; 

To  their  warm,  lustrous  bowers  they  lead  me ; 
I  wither  —  to  blossom  anew. 


A  WINTER  IN  SPRING. 

How  frosty  and  bare  seems  the  world,  love! 

I  am  sorrowing  all  the  while ; 
For  I  miss  the  warm  blaze  of  thine  earnest  eye, 

And  the  bloom  of  thy  beautiful  smile. 

There 's  a  blank  in  my  life  and  my  heart,  love, 

That  ought  to  be  filled  by  thee. 
I  have  waited  and  watched  so  long,  love — 

Why  comest  thou  not  to  me  ? 

The  bird  is  seeking  his  mate,  love ; 

The  breezes  are  kissing  the  flowers; 
There  is  union  of  other  dear  hearts,  love  — 

Why  is  there  no  union  of  ours? 

The  wavelets  are  singing  their  songs,  love, 
At  the  feet  of  the  flowers  on  the  shore ; 


A  WINTER  IN  SPRING.  265 

But  the  voice  that  once  caroled  to  me,  love, 
Is  caroling  to  me  no  more. 

I  bend  me  over  my  books,  love, 
From  yearning  my  spirit  to  free ; 

But  they  can  not  conceal  the  bright  looks,  love, 
That  used  to  beam  kindly  on  me. 

The  poet  is  only  a  poet ; 

The  sage  is  only  a  sage ; 
But  thy  voice  would  furnish  the  heart,  love. 

To  speak  to  me  out  of  the  page. 

Hast  thou  said  that  my  friendship  was  false,  love  ? 

Oh,  who  could  be  faithless  to  thee ! 
Then  send  me  but  one  little  word,  love, 

How  trifling  soever  it  be. 

One  word,  just  to  say  that  you  're  well,  love, 
And  happy — I'll  ask  for  no  more; 

And  I'll  treasure  it  up  in -my  heart,  love, 
Where  I  Ve  treasured  so  many  before. 

For  I  sigh,  as  I  look  from  my  window, 

And  watch  the  bright  birds  where  they  swing. 
12 


1566  A  WINTER  IN  SPRING. 

This  silence,  this  dreary  neglect,  love, 
Have  made  a  dull  winter  of  spring. 

Return,  oh,  my  light-hearted  maiden! 

And  shine  through  my  cloud-shadowed  hours. 
They  wait  but  thy  song  and  thy  sunlight 

To  blossom  all  out  into  flowers. 


SUMMER. 

To-day,  my  soul  discerned 

A  measure,  solemn  and  slow, 
That  came,  and  went,  and  back  returned, 

Like  waves  in  ebb  and  flow. 

The  world  lies  sad  and  lone 

Under  a  wintry  day ; 
But  thou  hast  a  summer  coming  on, 

That  never  shall  pass  away. 

Pain  of  thy  brow  and  heart, 

Hours  of  weeping  and  strife ; 
These  are  the  things  that  have  made  thee  smart 

Under  a  wintry  life. 

But  sorrow  can  not  intrude 

In  the  smile  of  thy  coming  hours ; 

Then  beautiful  thoughts,  all  wise  and  good, 
Will  bloom  in  thy  soul  like  flowers. 


268  SUMMER. 

The  darkened  valley  is  near; 

But  be  thou  brave  and  strong; 
For,  lo!  at  the  end  the  light  is  clear, 

And  the  way  can  not  be  long. 

Let  the  swift  seasons  march 
With  glooms  and  glories  by ; 

While  over  them  all  is  bowed  the  arch 
Of  the  blue,  majestic  sky. 

A  summer  or  two  may  lean 

Over  thy  stranded  boat ; 
A  winter  or  two  will  glide  between, 

And  then  it  will  surely  float. 

The  cowering  world  must  lie 

Under  its  wintry  day ; 
But  a  summer  waits  for  the  soul,  on  high, 

That  never  shall  pass  away. 

My  listening  spirit  knows 
The  truth  of  the  solemn  lay  ; 

I  pause,  as  the  measure  comes  and  goes, 
And  I  lift  my  heart  to  pray. 


SUMMER.  269 

"Oh  !  open  the  gates  so  bright, 
Where  lingers  the  shining  band ! 

Let  through  to  my  soul  the  floods  of  light 
That  roll  in  the  spirit  land!" 

Sweet  tears  to  my  eyelids  start, 
At  thought  of  my  wondrous  gain  ; 

For  I  soon  shall  love  with  an  angel's  heart, 
And  think  with  an  angel's  brain. 


IF. 

If  I  ever  love  you, 
(As,  perchance,  I  may,) 
'Twill  be  when  I  prove  you 
True  in  all  you  say. 
Faithful-hearted,  ardent,  kind, 
High  of  soul,  and  pure  of  mind ; 
Be  all  this,  and  you  shall  know 
How  a  woman's  love  may  grow, 
Like  the  new-moon,  small  and  white, 
Broadening  to  a  full-orbed  light. 

If  I  ever  serve  you, 
(Served  by  you  in  turn,) 
Happy  if  I  nerve  you 
For  life's  conflict  stern, 
'Twill  be  when  I  know  you  brave, 
Grateful  for  the  good  you  crave, 
Strong  in  energy  and  will, 


IF.  271 


Merciful  and  careful  still, 
Moved  by  trouble's  lightest  call, 
Loving  many,  helping  all 

If  I  ever  nourish 
As  the  ground  the  plant, 
Blessed  if  you  but  flourish 
Though  my  life  be  scant, 
'Twill  be  when  I  see  you  bear 
Deeds,  like  flowers,  complete  and  fair, 
Of  all  worthy  purpose  born, 
Hedged  not  with  the  mocking  thorn. 
Oh!  I  could  not  bear  to  be 
Tender  of  the  thistle-tree. 

If  I  learn  to  bless  you, 
(Blest  your  life  to  share,) 
Lingering  to  caress  you, 
With  a  silent  prayer, 
For  the  sweet  continuance 
Of  our  love's  serene  romance, 
T  will  be  when  my  soul  receives 
Knowledge  where  it  now  believes. 
Only  what  I  think  you,  prove, 
And  I  give  you  love  for  love. 


MY  SPIRIT  LUTE. 

I  have  a  little  spirit  lute  — 
A  lute  that 's  all  my  own ; 

Whose  treasured  melodies  are  heard 
By  my  fond  heart  alone. 

Yet,  others  play  that  lute,  and  oh! 

Of  all  I  ever  knew, 
None  ever  touched  its  golden  chords, 

But  worthy  friends  and  true. 

And,  if  I  guard  my  spirit  lute 
From  every  touch  profane, 

Never  along  its  chords  shall  ring 
One  sharp,  discordant  strain. 

To  "Vinnie" one  sweet  chord  I  yield, 
And  she  can  make,  at  will, 

The  richest,  deepest  melody 
Along  my  heart-strings  thrill. 


MY   SPIRIT    LUTE.  273 

And  "Mae"  can  touch  one  golden  string, 

So  sweetly,  and  so  well, 
uMae,"  or  an  angel,  which  it  is, 
Sometimes,  I  can  not  tell. 

And  from  my  viewless  spirit  lute, 

One  chord  I  love  to  lend 
To  Ellen,  dear,  true-hearted  girl, 

My  loved,  and  faithful  friend. 

Jeannette,  whose  cheerful,  winning  smile, 

Is  yet  undimmed  by  sadness, 
Can  wake,  in  my  unquiet  soul, 

Sweet  tones  of  hope  and  gladness. 

Dear,  merry-hearted  cousin,  "Liss," 

Can  wake  the  gayest  strain, 
And  ease  my  weary,  yearning  heart, 

Of  more  than  half  its  pain. 

And  like  the  light  and  dainty  song 
Of  some  sweet  woodland  fairy, 

Gushes  the  music  of  the  chord, 
That's  played  by  gentle  "Carrie." 
12* 


274  MY    SPIRIT   LUTE. 

And  there  is  one — shall  nameless  be- 
Whose  lip  in  death  is  mute, 

Who  used  to  wake  wild  music  o'er 
My  viewless  spirit  lute. 

And  yet,  I  have  another  friend, 
Whose  name  I  can  not  tell; 

Nor  know  I  in  what  distant  clime 
My  unknown  friend  doth  dwell. 

But  if  my  heart  has  sung  aright, 
When  my  poor  life  is  told, 

Then,  hand  in  hand,  my  friend  and  I 
Shall  walk  the  streets  of  gold. 

Then  to  that  truest  spirit  friend, 
.    I  '11  yield  my  spirit  lute, 
Eternally  its  strains  shall  blend, 
And  not  a  chord  be  mute. 


A  PHANTASY. 


"Know  ye  the  land  of  love? 
Tts  ancieut  boundaries?  the  broad  exto:.t 
Of  its  illimitable  continent?  " 


When  stars  without  number 
Lit  twilight's  broad  breast, 

And  gleamings  of  umber 
Lay  low  in  the  west, 

I  found  in  my  slumber 
The  land  of  the  blest. 

Oh!  sweet  was  my  dreaming*! 

With  surgings  of  light, 
My  vailed  brain  was  teeming, 

Albeit  't  was  night ; 
With  mystical  seeming, 

Creation  was  white. 

All  times  were  light  leisures, 
Delicious,  complete; 


\ 

276  A    PHANTASY. 

My  thoughts  ran  to  measures, 
As  water  songs  sweet; 

All  flowery  treasures 
Grew  under  my  feet. 

I  felt  like  the  palmer, 

On  holiest  plain. 
All  turbulent  clamor, 

All  babblings  vain, 
Were  lost  in  the  glamour 

That  curtained  my  brain. 

Sweet  land  of  the  loving, 
So  drowsily  white,    t 

Where  glad  wings  were  moving 
In  murmurous  flight, 

And  rivers  were  grooving 
The  valley-land  bright! 

0,  rapturous  being, 

Where  melody  flew, 
Each  swift  strain  agreeing 

With  symphonies  new, 
Like  trooping  birds  fleeing 

In  parallels  true ! 


A   PHANTASY.  277 


I  dreamed  —  and  I  waken;— 
I  dreamed  but  an  hour ; — 

My  joys  are  down- shaken 
Like  dews  from  a  flower; 

But  dews  are  retaken, 
And  dreams  have  a  power. 

So,  when  I  grow  eager 
For  riddance  of  pain, 

When  doubtings  beleaguer 
My  laboring  brain, 

And  love  feasts  are  meager, 
I  '11  slumber  again. 


BELL. 

Where  is  little  Bell? 
The  flowers  in  yonder  darkened  dell, 

As  pale  as  moonlight,  stand, 
To  wait  the  plucking  by  the  hand 

Of  tiny,  smiling  Bell. 

She  was  akin  to  those ; — 
Her  face  was  like  a  fair,  wild  rose; — 

Her  liquid,  sparkling  eyes, 
Were  like  two  dewdrops  of  the  skies, 

Let  down  at  daylight's  close. 

Where  is  laughing  Bell? 
The  streamlet  where  she  loved  so  well 

To  sit  and  dream,  of  yore, 
Climbs  nimbly  up  its  grass-grown  shore, 

To  watch  for  pretty  Bell. 

She  was  akin  to  that; 
For  still  her  merry,  rippling  chat 


BELL.  279 

Flowed  through  us  all  the  day ; 
And  thoughts  as  sweet  as  flowers  of  May 
Within  our  hearts  begat. 

Where  is  beauteous  Bell? 
The  birds  whose  songs  were  wont  to  swell 

In  greeting,  when  she  came, 
Seem  softly  saying  o'er  her  name, 

And  asking,  "  Where  is  Bell  ?" 

Her  voice  was  wont  to  be 
Brimful  of  pleasant  melody, — 

Not  learned,  but  always  known, 
And  gurgling  out  in  every  tone, 

Delicious,  clear,  and  free. 

Where  is  gentle  Bell  ? 
The  hearts  that  prisoned  her  so  well, 

Are  rifled  of  their  love; — 
The  fluttering  pinions  of  the  dove 

Flew  out,     0,  where  is  Bell? 

The  little  drawer  is  piled 
With  her  small  garments,  white  and  undefiled, 

And  somewhere  underneath 
The  barren  clay,  there  lies  a  bed  of  death, — • 

There  sleeps  the  child! 


SNOW-BERRIES. 

PART   I. 

If  I,  by  a  magic  power, 
Pluck  the  sweet  rose  of  the  olden  time; 
That  rose,  that  was  withered  before  its  prime, 

Wilt  thou  dew,  with  thy  tears,  the  flower? 

Can  it  bloom  as  of  old,  to-day? 
Let  us  look  for  the  honey  of  love,  and  see 
If  passing  distrust,  like  a  ravishing  bee, 

Has  stolen  it  all  away. 

The  night  is  with  me  again! 
When  I  heard,  for  the  first,  thy  soft  voice  in 

the  air, 
In  dulcet  quavers  of  merriment  rare, 

That  captured  the  dullest  brain. 

I  watched  thy  smiling  face, 
Drifting  along  the  human  flood ; 


SNOW-BERRIES.  281 

And  saw,  where,  after  the  smile,  there  stood 
A  black  robed  woe  in  its  place. 

I  heard  them,  whispering,  say, 
"  She  is  changeful  and  wild  as  an  April  hour ;" 
And  I  said,   "From  her  sepulchred  heart,  no 
power 

Rolled  ever  the  stone  away." 

But  they  answered,  uShe  has  thrown 
The  loves  of  those  who  would  love  aside ; — 
Her  soul  is  full  of  a  willful  pride ; 

She  is  selfish — let  her  alone." 

Away  from  me  thou  did'st  glide, 
With  a  light,  low  laugh,  dividing  the  crowd ; 
But  I  heard,  in  the  laugh,  a  wailing  loud  — 

The  surge  of  love's  refluent  tide. 

Plenteous,  pure,  and  sweet, 
A  rill  gushed  out  of  my  own  heart's  rock, 
That  gathered  its  waves'  in  a  silver  flock, 

And  flung  them  at  thy  feet. 

Oh!  I  did  love  thee,  Mae! 
Loved  thee,  —  as  nightingales  love  the  night  — 


282  SNOW-BERRIES. 

As  the  lone  cloud  loves  the  full  moon  white  — 
As  orioles  love  the  day. 

If  thou  didst  chance  to  frown, 
And  turn  away  from  my  proffered  lips, 
It  was  to  me  as  a  frost  that  nips 

The  loveliest  lilies  down. 

And,  when  thy  frown  was  lost 
In  a  sunrise  smile,  sweetly  flooding  thy  face, 
My  lilies  bloomed  with  a  brighter  grace, 

I  said,  for  the  cruel  frost. 

Witness  the  ardent  lines 
I  sent  to  thy  heart,  articulate 
With  the  lore  of  love,  as  wind  tunes  mate 

With  the  words  of  the  odorous  pines ! 

Witness  the  angry  light 

That  burned  in  my  eyes,  when  they  blamed 

thee  so, 

For  the  madness  of  one  whose  brain  with  woe 
Had  sunk  from  its  manly  hight! 

Witness  the  tears  I  shed, 
When  thou  didst  for  love's  sweet  sake,  uncover 


SNOW-BERRIES.  283 

Thy  hopes,  from  the  shroud  that  wrapped  them 

over, 
To  show  me  thy  beautiful  dead ! 

Witness  them  all — I  loved! 
But  the  wildest  gleam  of  my  childhood  glee, 
Though  it  rose  and  fell  like  the  star  on  the  sea, 

Was  firm  as  thy  friendship  proved. 

What  robbed  my  cherishing  heart 
Of  the  exquisite  bliss  of  thy  clinging  love  ? 
Alas !  that  a  viewless  thing  could  move 

Our  coupled  spirits  apart! 

The  sea  of  our  love  was  high ; 
And   linked  together,  like  shallops  light, 
We  moved  in  the  wind,  like  birds  in  flight;— 

I  looked,  and  thou  wert  not  nigh. 

Why  do  the  years  return, 
And  open  their  gloomiest  walKS  to-day? 
I  can  but  linger  awhile,  and  pray 

Over  each  shattered  urn. 

It  can  but  give  me  pain 
To  see  the  shut  buds  of  my  fickle  spring; 


284  SNOW-BERRIES. 

But  the  vines  of  thy  dead  love  round  me  cling, 
And  fetter  me  like  a  chain. 

And  memory  starts  from  her  sleep, 
While   I  lean  from  my  storm- toss' d  ark,    and 

yearn 
For  Mae,  the  flown  dove  of  my  soul  to  return, 

Before  I  am  whelmed  in  the  deep. 

Or  ever  my  heart  shall  know 
The  chill  that  heralds  the  awful  grave  — 
I  pause  at  the  wintry  drift,  and  crave 

A  flower,  ere  my  head  lies  low. 

And  I  would  that  thou  shouldst  see, 
Over  the  cold  snow's  shrouding  robes, 
A  light  stem,  drooping  with  milk-white  glo)  -as, 

The  fruit  of  my  knowledge  of  thee. 

For  the  love  in  the  summer  born, 
Only  within  two  girlish  souls, 
Like  plants,  upspringing  in  fragile  bowls, 

In  one  of  them  lives  unshorn. 

My  darling,  it  will  not  die ; 
But  circles  the  fuller  —  the  more  complete  — 


SNOW-BERRIES. 


285 


However  thou  rack'st  it  with  wind  and  sleet, 
Than  under  the  summer  sky. 

There  cometh  a  time  full  fast, 
On  earth,  or  in  heaven,  I  may  not  say, 
When  thou  wilt  gather  these  heart-fruits,  Mae, 

And  cherish  them  all,  at  last. 

PART   II. 

There  are  times  when  the  soul  doth  lean 
Down  toward  the  valley  from  whence  it  hath 

climbed, 
To  listen  once  more  for  the  dirges  that  chimed 

From  the  bitter  waters  between. 

There  are  hours  when  it  seems  to  know 
That  a  raven  is  flying  up  from  the  vale, 
And  nerves  itself  for  a  sorrowful  tale, 

With  a  prescient  song  of  woe. 

I  had  hardly  sung  my  lay, 
When  there  came  a  message  to  me,  that  said, 
uThe  bride  of  a  month  lies  stricken  and  dead; 

The  maiden  whose  name  was  Mae." 


286  SNOW-BERRIES. 

And  this  is  why,  when  I  wrote, 
"  Thou  wilt  gather  these  heart-fruits  soon,"  I 

heard, 
The  chime  of  a  sweet,  assenting  word, 

Out  of  the  blue  sky  float. 

Oh !  Mae !  beloved  of  my  heart! 
That  thou  shouldst  have  lifted  thy  spirit-wings, 
Floating  out  of  the  shroud  of  perishing  things, 

When  we  were  so  far  apart ! 

Oh !  that  thou  hadst  told  me  why 
Thou  didst  treat  my  love  as  a  useless  thing, 
And  toss  it  away,  as  one  might  fling 

A  pearl,  that  is  tear-dimmed,  by ! 

I  had  thought  to  lose  my  breath 
Or  ever  thou  didst,  for  my  lamp  burned  dimly ; 
And  I  knew  I  should  see  what  stood  so  grimly 

Between  us,  after  the  death. 

With  a  desperate  will  to  cloke 
The  love  I  never  had  cloked  before, 
T  thought,  if  the  thrill  of  my  heart-strings  is  o'er, 

They  shall  be  like  the  sinews  of  oak. 


SNOW-BERRIES.  287 

It  may  be,  a  slandering  lip 
Sent  a  false  tale  into  thy  sensitive  ear, 
That  tingled  with  echoing  faith  to  hear 

The  lash  of  the  scorpion  whip. 

And  if  I  had  said,  "  But  prove 
That  I  have  done  aught  to  forfeit  thy  heart.77 
I  had  seen  the  dark  cloud  of  thine  anger  depart, 

And  let  down  the  star  of  thy  love. 

But  wo  for  the  stubborn  pride, 
Closing  my  lips  that  I  could  not  brook 
To  ask  for  a  smile,  or  a  tender  look, 

Though,  lacking  it,  I  had  died! 

For,  just  as  my  ice-bound  soul 
Had  broken  the  links  that  had  fettered  it  long, 
And  I  said,  "I  will  call  back  her  love  with  a 
song," 

Then,  then  did  the  death-bell  toll. 

And  the  long  procession  of  woes 
Crept  down  from  my  eyes  at  the  solemn  sound, 
While  I  laid  my  head  on  the  frosty  ground, 

And  sighed  for  the  blasted  rose, 


288  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Saying,  "Now,  by  my  sobbing  breath, 
By  the  misery  racking  my  smitten  heart, 
I  will  play  nevermore  this  cowardly  part, 

Till  my  loves  are  buried  in  death. 

uFor,  'few  are  the  days  of  our  years,' 
And  love  is  the  only  light  we  have 
To  paint  us  the  splendor  beyond  the  grave  — • 

The  rainbow  over  the  tears. 

"Oh,  beautiful  April,  child! 
Oh,  glorified  spirit !  lean  out  of  the  skies, 
And  warm  my  cold  neart  with  the  sun  of  thine 
eyes; 

For  the  winter  is  dreary  and  wild! 

"  And  I  ask  for  a  smile  to  day, 
While  I  linger  under  the  cypress  tree, 
And  sweep  my  harp  in  a  dirge  for  thee, 

My  angel  love,  my  Mae." 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

The  winds  go  sobbing  their  prayerful  masses, 
Wanting  the  sound  of  thy  laughter  sweet; 


SNOW-BERRIES.  289 

The  dumb  earth  yearns  into  asking  grasses, 
Missing  the  tread  of  thy  dancing  feet. 

Thy  sisters  look  into  each  other's  faces, 
Pale  for  the  ghost  of  a  presence  fled ; 

Thy  lover  hides  him  in  secret  places, 

To  think  of  his  bride,  trampled  down  with 
the  dead. 

Thy  mother  looks  from  her  shaded  casement, 
With  an  anguish  couched  in  her  dim,  deep 

eyes, 

And  cowers  at  thy  tomb  in  bitter  abasement, 
With  a  robe  and  a  heart  like  the  midnight 
skies. 

Thy  friends  who  were  false  —  and  their  name 

is  legion  — 

Talk  with  smooth  words  of  thee,  now  thou 
art  dead ; 

But  thou  hearest  them  not  in  the  soundless  re 
gion, 

Where  thou  hast  pillowed  thy  graceful  head. 

Full  of  the  keen,  cold  wind  of  trouble, 
From  breath  to  breath  careening  about, 

13 


290  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Thou  didst  soar,  at  last,  like  a  gilded  bubble, 
Just  when  the  love-bright  sun  shone  out. 

A  wall  of  clay  and  a  grave-stone  guard  thee. 

My  song  dies  away  in  an  under-breath ; 
For  my  river  of  love,  as  it  leaps  toward  thee. 

Stiffens  to  ice  in  the  presence  of  Death. 


THE  DEAD  PINE. 

In  the  center  of  the  wood, 
Where  a  little  clearing  lay, 

A  sequestered  dwelling  stood, 
Waiting  for  my  feet,  one  day. 

Coming  in,  a  road  cut  out 

Through  the  berry  brambles,  led; 
Winding  curiously  about, 

O'er  the  rough,  root-matted  bed. 

Full  five  hundred  years,  or  more, 
Had  been  training  up  the  pines; 

All  along  the  forest  floor, 
Marshaling  them  in  stately  lines. 

Redly  flamed  the  autumn  sun ; 

And,  upon  the  eddying  air, 
Came  the  torn  leaves,  one  by  one  — 

Some  were  dusky,  some  were  fair. 


292  THE  DEAD  PINE. 

Maples,  lithe  and  crimson  leaved, 

Leaning  earthward,  touched  my  cheek ; 

And  the  drooping  beeches  grieved, 
As  if  just  about  to  speak. 

But  the  tales  they  would  have  told, 
By  the  minstrel  pines  were  caught, 

And  in  mystic  language  rolled 

Downward  for  my  solving  thought. 

Language  "eerie"  soft  and  strange, 
And  I  listened  with  a  thrill ; 

Did  it  breathe  of  earthly  change, 
Or  of  something  sadder  still? 


Must  I,  in  this  secret  place, 
See  my  life-hopes  torn  away, 

A.S  the  pines,  with  solemn  face, 
Saw  the  forest  leaves,  that  day  r 


Who  could  tell?  but  this  I  knew, 
Surely  as  the  world  doth  roll, 

I  must  have  my  autumn,  too, 
Chilling  all  my  stricken  soul. 


THE  DEAD  PINE. 

Fresh  from  city  sound  and  sight, 
Bowed  I  then  my  head  and  sighed. 

With  a  sadness  half  delight, 
And  a  gladness  tearful-eyed. 

"Here,  a  little  while,"  I  said, 
14  Will  I  linger  to  prepare 
For  the  dwellings  of  the  dead, 

For  the    loom  and  silence  there. 


"Gathering  from  the  sweeping  wind, 
Gathering  from  the  waving  trees, 

Sweet  delights  to  feed  the  mind 
Or  a  crowd  of  miseries. 

"Calm  seclusion  well  may  suit 
Those  who  feel  the  life-pulse  fail  ; 

Birds,  whose  latest  songs  are  mute, 
Ended  in  a  broken  wail. 

"It  is  very  sad,"  I  said, 

"But,  when  sickness  stays  the  flight, 
Though  we  live,  we  yet  are  dead, 

In  the  morning,  crowned  with  night, 


294  THE    DEAD    PINE. 

Standing  in  the  cabin  door, 

When  the  evening  hours  were  gone, 
Three  most  lofty  pines  before, 

Singing  in  the  crimson  dawn. 

Then  I  saw,  not  far  away, 

One  that  had  been  dead  so  long, 

That  the  rising  wind  of  day 
Could  not  rouse  it  into  sons1. 


"  Oh,  most  bitter  lot !  "  I  thought, 
"Thus  to  stand,  unthrilled  and  mute, 

When  all  else  is  music-fraught, 
Like  the  breath  within  the  flute. 

u  Silent,  melancholy  tree, 

Saddest  feelings  thou  dost  bring 

Am  I  not  akin  to  thee  — 

I,  who  nevermore  can  sing  ?  " 

And  a  pity  in  my  heart. 

For  the  heart  of  that  dead  pine, 
Grew,  until  it  seemed  to  start 

Into  something  more  divine. 


THE    DEAD    PINE.  295 

More  divine  than  it  could  be, 

Being  dead,  unfruitful,  cold; 
In  its  youth,  a  simple  tree  — 

Nothing,  now  that  it  was  old. 

Oh  !  the  heart  will  bud  and  bloom 

Into  little  loves  like  this — 
Loves  that  hover  round  a  tomb, 

Images  of  death  to  kiss. 

Every  morning,  thus  I  stood, 
Looking  past  the  stately  three, 

Where,  beside  the  withered  wood, 
Towered  my  blasted,  songless  tree. 

Every  evening,  thus  I  said, 

"Ere  another  dawn  shall  break, 

We  who  live,  and  yet  are  dead, 
In  the  final  blast  may  quake." 

Once,  at  night,  I  wc>ke,  and  high 
Raved  the  winter's  voice  of  fear  ; 

Tempests  rode  along  the  sky, 
Wind-wails  sounded  in  my  ear. 


296  THE    DEAD    PINE. 

Strangely  startled  where  I  lay, 

Looking  southward,  through  the  glass, 

I  could  see,  along  their  way, 
All  the  cloudy  legions  pass. 

Oh  !  the  mad,  beseeching  signs ! 

Oh !  the  long,  despairing  call ! 
Oh!  the  surging  of  the  pines, 

Like  a  roaring  waterfall. 

uSuch  are  we,"  I  murmured  low, 

"Mocked  of  life  and  racked  with  pain  ; 

Struck  by  all  the  winds  that  blow; 
Crying  out  for  help  in  vain." 

While  my  fierce  rebellion  grew 
Strong,  tempestuous  as  the  wind. 

Sudden  sounds  came  in,  and  drew 
Outwardly  my  striving  mind. 

Something  like  a  woful  shriek ; 

Something  like  a  hurried  blow  ; 
Then  a  gasping  cry,  and  weak ; 

Then  an  instant  overthrow. 


THE  DEAD  PINE.  297 

Ah!  no  more,  my  blasted  tree, 

Brother  of  my  heart  and  life, 
Will  I  look  at  morn  on  thee  — 

Ended  evermore  the  strife. 

Leaning  toward  my  window-pane, 

By  the  dawning's  earliest  line 
Came  a  wonder  to  my  brain  — 

Stood  unbowed  my  blasted  pine ; 

But  of  those  —  the  stately  three  — 
One  green  head  was  stricken  low  ; 

And  there  came  a  thought  to  me, 
While  I  smiled  to  see  it  so. 

"When  the  grief- wind,  full  of  dread, 
Raves  around  the  human  heart, 

We  who  live,  and  yet  are  dead, 
Are  not  they  who  feel  the  smart. 

"But  some  life  that  never  wore 
Sign  of  scath,  or  scar  of  wound, 

Smitten  to  its  very  core, 

Wailing,  dying,  seeks  the  ground." 


13* 


298  THE  DEAD  PINE. 

Once,  again.  The  day  was  laid 
At  the  noontide  in  a  shroud; 

And  the  woodman's  labor  made 
All  the  air  with  echoes  loud. 

Talking,  by  the  firelight-shine, 
Some  one,  entering,  said  to  me, 

''Soon  will  fall  your  blasted  pine; 
Hurry  to  the  door  and  see! " 

Leaning  outward,  in  the  cold, 
Then  I  whispered,  with  a  sigh, 

"Of  what  use  the  sick  and  old ? 
Brother  of  my  heart,  good  by. 

"Blows,  resounding,  sharp  and  fast, 
Through  the  clearing,  smite  my  ear. 

Brother,  once  the  cleaving  past, 
Thou  and  I  have  nought  to  fear." 

Suddenly,  by  impulse  new, 
As  if  something  told  me  so, 

Turned  I  to  the  stately  two, 
Looking  for  the  overthrow. 


THE  DEAD  PINE. 

Instantly  the  axe  grew  still ; 

And  I  saw  the  loftiest  wave, 
Just  a  little,  from  the  hill, 

As  if  looking  for  a  grave. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  bowed, 
Struggling,  with  a  giant  strength, 

From  its  dwelling,  'mid  the  cloud, 
Came  the  noble  head  at  length. 

Oh,  the  quivering !  the  strain, 
Tugging  at  each  fibre  fine ; 

Oh,  the  yearning  cries  of  pain ! 
Oh,  the  falling  of  the  pine  ! 

With  a  sound  of  rushing  power, 
With  a  last,  unearthly  call, 

Broken,  like  a  fragile  flower, 
Lay  the  stateliest  tree  of  all. 

Leaning  outward,  in  the  cold, 

"Brother  of  my  heart,"  I  said, 
"  Who  would  smite  the  sick  or  old? 
They  who  live  and  yet  are  dead. 


300  THE  DEAD  PINE. 

"  We  the  work  of  time  must  wait, 
While  the  slow  years  round  us  creep, 

Ere  we  yield  us  to  our  fate, 

Quickly  crumbling  down  to  sleep." 


Now,  the  fair,  white-handed  May, 
Like  a  gentle  nurse,  came  near, 

Where  the  sick  world  moaning  lay, 
And  she  smiled  away  his  fear. 

Touched  his  pulses,  faint  and  low ; 

Stirred  his  heart-strings,  still  and  weak. 
Till  the  life,  in  sudden  flow, 

Ran  along  his  swarthy  cheek. 

Rambling  o'er  the  blossoming  ground, 

I,  with  infantile  delight, 
Some  new  glory  ever  found, 

Waiting  for  my  happy  sight. 

But,  one  morn,  upon  the  hill, 

Loitering  in  the  joy  of  day, 
Some  weird  feeling  seemed  to  fill 

All  my  soul  with  sore  dismay. 


THE  DEAD  PINE.  301 

Soon  a  low  and  groaning  sound, 

Now  afar,  and  now  a-near, 
Seemed  to  trail  along  the  ground, 

Lifting  then  to  touch  my  ear. 

This  way,  that  way,  did  I  look, 
Nothing  strange  was  in  my  sight : 

But  the  brake-fronds  near  me  shook, 
And  the  birds  came  down  from  flight. 


Then,  a  crackling,  crumbling  noise — • 
uAh!  "  I  said,  umy  blasted  pine, 

When  all  else  is  rocked  with  joys, 
Saddest  fate  must  now  be  thine." 


But  there  came  a  horrid  crash  ; 

In  the  fair  face  of  the  sun 
There  was  made  a  sudden  gash  — 

Earthward  swept  the  stately  one. 

Green,  and  flourishing,  and  strong, 
Yet  some  fibre  underneath, 

Like  a  lute-string  strained  too  long, 
Parting,  let  it  down  to  death. 


302  THE  DEAD  PINE. 

Then  I  sat  me  down  to  think ; 

For  my  lonely,  songless  tree 
Stood  above  the  streamlet  brink, 

Looking  down  upon  the  three. 

"If  the  tempest-grief  go  by, 
If  misfortune's  weapon  spare, 

They  who  thrive  may  sink  and  die, 
Like  this  pine,  when  all  is  fair. 

"  In  the  largest  life  and  thought, 
Death  may  claim  his  human  prey; 

And  the  flesh  with  vigor  fraught, 
Pales  and  tttrns  but  common  clay. 

"  But,  alas  !   oh,  brother,  old  ! 

We  who  live  and  yet  are  dead, 
Wait  the  night  and  wintry  cold  — 

These  must  end  our  doom  of  dread.'7 


Never  came  the  hectic  blush 
To  a  lady's  pleasant  face, 

Softlier  than  the  crimson  flush, 
Tinting  every  wooded  place. 


THE    DEAD  PINE.  30  o 

Never  sunk  a  lady's  tone 

To  a  more  melodious  fall, 
Than  the  dying  summer's  moan, 
-     While   she  waited  for  the  pall. 

Now,  within  the  cabin  door, 

With  a  heavy  heart  and  eye, 
Outwardly  I  leaned  once  more, 

Looking  toward  earth  and  sky. 

"Oh  !  most  quiet  home  of  mine, 
Linked  so  tightly  to  my  heart, 

Give  me  now  some  farewell  sign, 
Ere  my  loitering  feet  depart. 

uBack  to  city  sound  and  sight, 

Some  new  lesson  let  me  bear, 
That  shall  teach  my  soul  aright 

Both  to  suffer  and  to  dare. 

0 

"Not  a  song  upon  the  wind, 

And  the  sunset  in  the  west  — 
So  must  evening  shroud  the  mind ! 

So  must  silence  seal  the  breast! 


304  THE    DEAD    PINE. 

U0h!  thou  blasted,  songless  pine ! 

Thou,  whose  day  will  surely  end, 
Well  I  named  thee,  brother  mine! 

To  a  common  night  we  tend." 

While  I  lifted  up  my  eyes, 
To  its  lofty  top  there  came, 

Straightway,  from  the  far  off  skies 
Sudden  lines  of  golden  flame. 

Now,  my  brother  seemed  to  wear 
Such  a  halo  round  his  head, 

That  no  more  my  lips  could  dare 
Call  the  stately  prophet  dead. 

In  his  majesty  he  stood, 

Glorified  before  my  sight; — 

Of  the  broad,  encircling  wood, 
Only  he,  was  crowned  with  light. 

uNow,  perchance,"  I  wondering  said, 
uHe  some  other  life  may  claim 

And  this  silence,  like  the  dead, 
Bear   significance  the  same. 


THE    DEAD    PINE,  305 

"Surely,  soul  has  such  large  springs, — 

Is  so  infinite  in  scope, 
Even  dull,  insentient  things, 

May  have  spirit-life  to  hope. 

uFrom  the  Father's  breast,  a  vein 

Reaches  down  to  every  heart. 
May  we  not  send  out  again, 

Of  our  life  some  little  part  ? 

"If  a  globule  of  our  love 

Beat  against  a  tree  or  flower, 
Does  it  not  begin  to  move, 

Even  with  a  soul  that  hour? 

"Why  does  sunset  crown  the  pine, 

That  is  dead,  if  not  to  show 
That  its  heart,  as  well  as  mine, 

Yet  will  triumph  over  woe  ? 

"Coming  out  of  midnight  wind; — 

Coming  out  of  wintry  strife, 
Leaving  'living  death'  behind, 

In  the  realm  of  dying  life. 


306  THE    DEAD    PINE, 

"And  who  knows  but  when  in  me 
Spirit-life  shall  sweetly  thrive, 
I  shall  find  this  stately  tree, 
By  my  loving  made  alive? 

"  While  the  sunrise  flames  shall  play 
All  around  us,  brother  mine, 

We  may  both  be  named  that  day, 
Songful  soul,  and  songful  pine.7' 

Who  the  simple  thought  can  blame? 

For  when  sunset  ends  the  day, 
Every  thing  is  touched  with  flame, 
Even  to  the  sordid  clay. 

And  my  life-sun,  being  low, 
Falling  o'er  this  blasted  pine, 

Made  it  seem,  beneath  the  glow, 
Something  larger  —  more  divine. 

More  divine  than  it  could  be, 

Being  dead,  unfruitful,  cold; 
In  its  youth,  a  simple  tree  — 
Nothing,  now  that  it  was  old. 


THE    DEAD    PINE.  307 

Still,  thereafter,  when  I  turned 

Backward,  for  a  farewell  gaze, 
All  my  heart  within  me  burned, 
Like  the  hearts  of  August  days. 

Smiling  at  my  little  thought, 

"Yet,"  I  said,  U0h,  prophet  tree! 

Thou  hast  many  a  lesson- taught — 
Silent,  though  thou  art — to  me. 

« 
"If  a  globule  of  our  love 

Beat  against  a  tree  or  flower, 
We  ourselves  begin  to  move, 

With  a  larger  soul,  that  hour. 

"But  the  earthly  can  not  be 

Lit  with  aught  but  transient  flames. 

Songful  soul,  and  songless  tree  — 
God  himself  shall  name  the  names. 

"When  I  spread  my  wings  in  flight  — 
When  my  feet  have  spurned  the  clay, 

I  shall  whisper,  l  One,  at  night, 
Did  prefigure  this  my  day.' 


308 


THE    DEAD    PINE. 


"One  insensient,  still,  and  cold, 

Lifting  up  his  head  on  high, 
Showed  me  how  the  sick  and  old 

Catch  the  splendors  of  the  sky. 

"  Being  bare  of  leaves,  the  wind 
Passes  by,  with  scarce  a  blow ; 

Being  sapless,  none  can  find 
Reason  for  an  overthrow. 

"  Being  all  nnthrilled  and  mute, 

Death,  who  makes  the  heart-strings  quake, 
As  a  rough  hand  strikes  a  lute, 

Can  not  find  a  chord  to  break. 

u  It  is  very  sweet,"  I  said, 

"When  dark  sickness  stays  the  flight, 
We  may  live,  though  we  are  dead , 
In  the  eve  be  crowned  with  light. 

"Autumn  prophesies  of  spring; 

Sunset  prophesies  of  morn  ; 
And  the  silent  lip  will  sing 

When  the  soul  is  newly  born. 


THE   DEAD    PINE. 


309 


"Thou  art  brother  of  my  heart, 
Melancholy  pine,  no  more. 

Silently  to  day  we  part — 

Thou  must  crumble  —  I  shall  soar." 


LD21— A-40m-5  '74 
(R8191L)     ' 


uenerai  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


"  Being  all  nnthrilled  and  mute, 

Death,  who  makes  the  heart-strings  quake, 
As  a  rough  hand  strikes  a  lute, 

Can  not  find  a  chord  to  break. 

"  It  is  very  sweet,"  I  said, 

"When  dark  sickness  stays  the  flight, 
We  may  live,  though  we  are  dead , 
In  the  eve  be  crowned  with  light. 

"Autumn  prophesies  of  spring; 

Sunset  prophesies  of  morn  ; 
And  the  silent  lip  will  sing 

When  the  soul  is  newly  born. 


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